


NotMineAgain

by NinaSR



Category: S/mileage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8184121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinaSR/pseuds/NinaSR





	1. PART 1

Generally speaking, Dean does not ever have an urge to hit a female. Sure, he’s dealt with some real witches in his day, and okay, there was that time he pushed down Stacy McFadden while playing tetherball in fifth grade, but after he hit puberty he understood yes, it’s wrong to hit girls.

Dean is willing to make an exception for this one.

He runs a hand through his hair for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, fixing the glowering girl at the English office with his most impatient look. If it were possible to destroy people out of sheer frustration, he would’ve done it already. “Okay,” he enunciates, trying on his most charming smile, “I see that we’re not really understanding one another.”

“I understand you,” she insists, and it sounds like she might be trying to be polite but doesn’t really want to, “there’s just nothing I can do. If you can’t make any of the class times, then there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Could I speak to one of the professors? Something?” He is two steps away from begging on his knees.

“Sir, there’s not going to be any professor who will work with you on class times for an entire semester.”

Dean places his hands flat on the counter and looks her in the eye, another smile gracing his face—this one is Sincerity, it’s Help Me, Sweetheart, You’re My Only Hope. “Look. Ma’am. This is the last lit credit I need and I’ve got to get it out of the way now—I’m graduating in May and I have all major-related classes in the spring.” He thinks about his brother, Sam, who he has to pick up in—oooh, little brother! “I have a little brother I bring to school and pick up,” he wheedles, “every day. Nobody else that can do it. He’s fifteen and cute, want to see him?” Dean is not above dangling the adorable brother as sympathy bait. Sam, tall and gangly and goofy, is the perfect antidote to female bitchiness. They all say he’s flat-out precious.

She gives him a dirty look. “There’s nothing I can do. Take it next semester.”

“I don’t have room next semester,” he snaps, good graces gone. He’s not going to spill his life story to this woman, tell her how his mother’s dead and his father’s a drunk, and that he works at least forty hours a week and still manages to get good grades so he can send Sam to a private school in Kansas City. He doesn’t tell her that it’s an hour away, and that he’s been taking care of Sam since Sam was ten. He doesn’t tell her that he’s tired, and twenty-four, and nearly dropped out of school three times but always went back because of Sam. Sam needs him. Sam needs Dean to have a degree so Dean can get Sam to school in a few years.

He doesn’t tell this woman any of it, and she simply gives him a tight smile. “I’m sorry.”

Dean chews on his lip for a moment, sensing defeat rank in the air. “Fine. Thanks for your time.” Even though you didn’t do shit.

He takes a step to the side as a man comes into the office. The girl brightens considerably, giving him a radiant smile. Dean can practically see her pupils dilate as she goes into heat. The man is average height, maybe a little under, and his untidy dark hair doesn’t fit with the crisp white dress shirt, black vest and pants, and dark red tie. It looks like he’s ready for his violin concert. Julie damn near gives him a once-over. “Hey, Dr. Milton. I have your mail right here.”

“Thank you, Julie.” He takes the package and letters from her, but doesn’t spare her more than a brief smile. His posture is a little remarkable, very straight with thrown-back shoulders. He could probably walk with a textbook on his head.

Dean tilts his head as he looks at the man, thinking. Dr. Milton. Teaching Shakespeare in the fall, on Mondays and Wednesdays at nine. “Excuse me, Dr. Milton?”

The professor looks at Dean with dark blue eyes and a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”

“He can’t do anything,” Julie says, and she sounds super pissed now, probably mad at Dean for encroaching on her alone time. “I’m not going to have you harassing the professors of this department.”

Dr. Milton holds up one hand, giving her a very small smile. “It’s okay. What can I help you with?”

Dean tries not to smirk at Julie, but he fails. “Can I please speak to you in private? Are you busy right now?”

“I am not. Follow me.” He takes his mail with another small smile and leaves, heading down the hall and turning right. Dean follows, trying to think of what to say in his head, a way to make this guy work with him. If not this guy, then he’s going to try Dr. Barnes, but she eyed him like a tasty dish when he passed her office and he’s not sure it’s worth it.

Dr. Milton’s office is clean and neat but crammed with books from floor to ceiling. There aren’t any windows, which should make it feel gloomy and oppressing, but there’s a softer light bulb or something in the lights, and instead the room feels quiet. The books on the shelves (and on the floor) range from Bibles to outdated literary criticism to Stephen King. There seems to be a specific order in which they’re placed, but Dean can’t discern what that might be. Despite the aged look of his textbooks, there’s a brand new iMac on his desk in all its white glory, as well as a Macbook Air pushed off to the side. Dean would have absolutely pegged him for, oh, maybe a typewriter or something.

Dr. Milton motions to one of two empty leather chairs in front of his desk and Dean takes a seat. “All right, I’ve got a major problem.”

Dr. Milton settles in his own chair and smiles again, a little wider than before. It softens his sharp facial structure and makes him look rather kind, as if in his spare time he is a soother of babies and hysterical women. “It might help me to know your name.”

Shit, of course. Dean blushes vaguely, embarrassed to look like a fucking freshman when this is his sixth year of college. “Oh, sorry. I’m Dean Winchester.” He extends his hand first, which Dr. Milton shakes, grip very firm and continuing for the appropriate amount of time. Dean always appreciates a good handshake. It says a lot about the person, and this one in particular tells him that Dr. Milton is probably prompt and hard-working as well as efficient.

“Nice to meet you, Dean. I’m Castiel.”

Dean blinks at him a moment but decides not to mention the name. He needs to be on this guy’s good side. “Hi, nice to meet you. Okay, so my problem. I’ve got to take my core lit class this semester, but I literally can’t make any of the class times. I graduate in May, so I have to take all my core classes then.”

“That’s always unfortunate,” the professor says, and Dean smiles suddenly because it sounds like a genuine response rather than making fun.

“Yeah, right? Exactly. And since I bring my brother to school in Kansas City every day, and I bartend on the weekends and do mechanic work during the week, I was wondering if there would be any way, at all, for me to maybe…I don’t know…meet with you at another time? I’ll do all the work, I swear. I’m a hard worker.” Now that he’s saying it to a professor it sounds ridiculous. Requesting to miss all class time and make the professor work extra?

Dr. Milton watches him for a moment in a way that makes Dean squirm a little. Those blue eyes are intense. They make Dean want to be honest about everything. “How old is your brother?”

Dean doesn’t expect that and takes a moment to respond. “He’s fifteen and totally brilliant. He goes to Pembroke Hill.”

“Why do you take him to school?”

Dean should’ve known there would be a catch. Now he has to tell this guy every little secret. “Well, our mom died when he was a baby, and our dad—he’s not around a lot.”

“Does he work often?”

“Yeah,” Dean lies, and immediately feels guilty about it. “Actually, no. He’s just. He’s not really—do you think we can work something out or not?”

Dr. Milton leans forward, hands clasped together. He’s serious now, and not smiling, and Dean feels a prickle in his stomach. “What is your weekly schedule going to be like?”

Dean sighs a little and doesn’t want to repeat it, because he literally has no life. “I leave at six-thirty to bring Sam to school for eight, then I come back here. I’m usually here by nine-thirty, then I go to work until two, when I leave at two to pick Sammy up, and I’m home by four or so.” He has to pause to think about his schedule, since he just signed up for fall classes. “Um…right. Then I have night classes on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday from six to eight-thirty, and on Thursday I take Sam to a study session in Kansas City. Friday and Saturday are late shifts at the bar.” He clenches his jaw as he looks at the professor. “Is there anything I can work out with you? I really am a hard worker. I’ll do anything you ask. I just can’t make anything fit, and I know I should’ve done this before but I’m really bad with literature and I don’t like a lot of stuff and I put it off. Please. Can you help me?”

Leaning back in his seat, Dr. Milton folds his hands together again. “I can work something out with you.”  
Dean exhales a sigh of relief, hanging his head for a moment. “Thank you so much. You don’t know how grateful I am.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” he points out, turning to his spiffy computer and signing in, fingers moving quick across the keyboard. “But considering you’re as busy as you are and you aren’t dead yet, I think you can do it.”

Dean smiles a little at that. Sometimes he thinks the same thing. “Thank you so much. I really do appreciate this.”

“I’m teaching three classes this semester,” Dr. Milton continues. “Shakespeare, World Literature II, and the Bible as Literature. Which one would you like?”

Making a face, Dean runs a hand over his already-messy hair. “Um, which one’s the easiest and least boring?”

Dr. Milton laughs at that. It makes his whole face crinkle up and a dimple flash in his cheek. It’s endearing as hell and Dean hates that he notices—he thought he’d put that bullshit behind him since high school. “I’m teaching it, so of course I think it’s all interesting. But for you, I’d say to go with Shakespeare. Are you familiar with Shakespeare at all?”

“I know Romeo and Juliet,” Dean hedges. “And Hamlet. I think that’s it. That’s all I remember, anyway.”

“We will be reading eight plays over the course of the semester. I usually begin each new play with a PowerPoint concerning the history of the play and the culture at the time. I can email you those as we do them.” He tilts his head as he studies Dean. “I believe we should meet for two hours every week and discuss the current play. What do you think?”

Feeling that he doesn’t even deserve this much, Dean agrees. “That sounds good. When? What time? I can try to do what I can during the week, but weekends are easiest for me.”

Dr. Milton asks for his student ID and Dean gives it to him, watching those nimble fingers flick across the keys, the look of concentration that creases his handsome face. Dean looks away. He will not start this again. “I can do Saturday or Sunday mornings, before you go to work. My weekend evenings are usually filled with grading.”

Dean scratches his head, trying to decide if he wants to deal with Shakespeare on a Saturday morning before work. “Um, Saturdays are fine.”

“Shall we say nine, then? We can meet here, in my office, if that is convenient for you.”

Dean smiles, a genuine one, grateful as hell. “Dude, just you agreeing to help me out is convenient for me. I can be here.” And he can. Despite it being early, and despite the four hours of sleep he’ll get, the fact that Dr. Milton is willing to meet with him at all is a miracle. Dean can show his compromise in the form of sleep.

Dr. Milton smiles at him again, typing on the keyboard for a moment longer. “You are registered. I will mark you as present each day as long as we talk on the Saturday previous. If for whatever reason you must cancel, please let me know and we can try for Sunday.” He plucks a business card from his desk and hands it to Dean. “That is my office number, home number, cell phone, and email. You can even text me.”

Texting a professor sounds weird, but Dean smiles anyway. “Thanks. Here, let me give you mine, just in case.”

He does and, with everything worked out, Dean stands with a sigh. “I really do appreciate this, Dr. Milton.”

“I know,” the professor stays, rising as well. “I am happy to help. And you may call me Castiel. Dr. Milton makes me feel rather uncomfortable.”

Dean extends his hand and shakes it, grinning at a second firm, perfect handshake. He’s aware that he’s blushing, but hopes it doesn’t show in the soft light. “Castiel, then.”

“It was nice to meet you, Dean.” He picks up the black blazer on the back of his chair and slides it on. “I have a meeting I must attend, but please keep in touch. I will email you the list of plays you must read, as well as the syllabus. If you have any questions, please get in touch with me in whatever manner is easiest.”

“Thanks,” Dean says again. “Really.”

Castiel smiles at him and leads him out of the office. “Of course. I am happy to help.”

Dean watches him go down the hall before turning into the English office again, smirking at Julie. “Castiel worked it out with me. Thanks for your help.”

She stares at him with an open mouth until he laughs and leaves.

*

Dear Dean,

Here is the list of plays you will need to read over the course of the semester, as well as the syllabus. Briefly explained, as I’m sure you are not a syllabus person, you will be taking two exams—a midterm and a final—and writing two papers over two separate plays. We will discuss these papers as you get closer to them. I normally give a quiz at the start of every class to see how well you are reading, but as you and I will be having a face-to-face discussion, I will count that as your quiz grade each week.  
Here is the list of plays you will be reading, in order:

1\. Henry IV, Part I   
2\. Richard III   
3\. Macbeth   
4\. Hamlet   
5\. King Lear   
6\. As You Like It   
7\. The Taming of the Shrew   
8\. The Winter’s Tale

I always begin with the histories because they are boring (to most people), then the tragedies, and end with the comedies. In our first lesson we will discuss the publication of quartos, folios, etc., and I will prepare you on how best to read the text. You will also be reading a few sonnets, but I have not chosen those yet. I will let you know as soon as I do.

All best,   
Castiel

P.S. If it is acceptable to you, I would prefer to meet once before the first week of classes so I can get you started a bit earlier. I believe this will help you.

Dean grins as he reads the email, and responds in the affirmative with more enthusiasm than he anticipated, considering it’s classic literature. He shuts down his computer and rushes to his car, hurrying to pick Sam up at school.

*

The last few weeks of summer drag by for Dean. He’s taking two summer school courses, his last basic math and writing, but they’re online so he tries to work even more. He’s so close to getting his mechanical engineering’s degree he can almost taste it. He’s exhausted all the time from working so much—roughly seventy hours a week in the summer—but it helps to bring in enough money to get both Sam and himself some new clothes for the fall.

It’s been almost a week since he’s seen his dad, even though they live in the same house, and Dean tries not to think about that much at all.

Before he knows, it’s time for his first meeting with Castiel. Dean’s gotten all the plays at a local used bookstore and even flipped through them a little, but he has no idea what Shakespeare is trying so say. He puts them away until he’s forced to read them. He gets to Castiel’s office a little before nine, but he isn’t there yet. Running on nothing but four hours of sleep and half a cup of day-old coffee, he’s inexplicably miffed at being early, blaming not Castiel but Shakespeare for his lack of sleep. If Shakespeare hadn’t written so damn much, Dean could have slept more. Bastard. Grumbling more to himself, he plays Sudoku on his phone, finishing a full game before he hears footsteps and looks up.

Castiel, dressed more casually than before in navy pants and a striped shirt, smiles at him and Dean smiles back. Though he’s tired he realizes that he’s been looking forward to this, and it has nothing at all, in the slightest, to do with the handsome professor. Of course. “Morning.”

“Good morning, Dean.” He gestures to the box in his hands, unlocking his office. “I hope you like donuts. I’m about to make a pot of coffee as well, if you’d be interested.”

Dean thinks he still tastes the tepid coffee from an hour ago and quickly agrees, taking a seat and flipping open the donut box while Castiel makes the coffee. He takes a glazed donut and eats it in three bites, having not been hungry when he woke up but starving now. He looks around the office again, but it’s exactly as he remembered, crammed with books yet somehow organized.

“I don’t know how you take your coffee,” Castiel says, coming back in the room and pushing the door closed with his foot, “so I brought you cream and sugar.”

Dean takes the mug offered to him and grins. “I take it black, but thanks.”

“Ah. I’ve always tried to drink it black—I thought it was more manly that way—but I rather like sweet coffee.” He rips open four packets of sugar as if to prove his point and dumps them into his own mug. “How are you this morning?”

“Exhausted,” Dean admits. “I worked for my dad’s friend yesterday morning from six to about nine, then I went to the bar to help inventory from ten to twelve, then I worked all the way until three covering some shifts.”

“In the morning?” He sounds surprised and Dean just laughs.

“Yeah. It’s the last week I do that, though, then I go back to my regular hours. I just needed to get as much in as I could before school started.” He’s glad for it. He managed to make up the money needed for Sam’s tuition much quicker than he normally did. It’s one less thing he has to worry about. He’s lucky Sam’s such a smarty and receives a scholarship, allowing Dean to pay only six thousand each year. Otherwise Sam probably wouldn’t be able to go to the fancy private school.

“You do work hard,” Castiel comments, blowing on his coffee and taking a sip.

“I do. But it’s worth it in the end, right?”

“Do you think it is?”

Dean shrugs. “I hope to God it is.” He doesn’t put as much humor behind the words as he intended to and doesn’t miss the soft look that Castiel gives him. “So, um. What are we doing today?”

Castiel clears a space between them and hands Dean a few papers. “There’s a hard copy of your syllabus, plus the handouts I intend to give the class on Monday. All we’ll be discussing is, essentially, historical and cultural value. What do you know about Shakespeare?”

And that’s pretty much how their first lesson goes, Castiel asking questions and Dean answering them, then Castiel giving him a lecture that doesn’t so much as feel like a lecture as a friendly discussion. Dean even takes notes as well, able to focus more despite his distaste for the subject because Castiel is quiet and earnest and patient, delivering the material in such a way that even Dean, inept as he is with it, can understand.

They take a break for more coffee about an hour into it, Dean telling Castiel more than he expected to, Castiel sharing details about himself as well. He’s the youngest of three brothers and a sister, and his parents are world-famous Bible scholars who have spent all their time traveling since their youngest was able to take care of himself. He grew up rich, was about to turn thirty, and got his four degrees in ten years: Bachelor’s in English from Purdue, Master’s and PhD in a joint-track program at Notre Dame in literature, and a PhD in Comparative Literature from Brown . None of his siblings understand why he chose a small town in Kansas to live in, much less teach in. “They’re all advertising executives or lawyers or doctors,” Castiel says, smiling wryly. “They don’t know why I willingly deal with young people.”

When eleven o’clock rolls around, Castiel finishes a little abruptly. “You must go to work now, so we will talk again next week. Read the first two acts and take notes, especially if you don’t understand something. And if you’re really and truly lost, I suggest SparkNotes. Though,” he adds with a smile, “that does not in any way mean you should not read the play. I expect you to be able to converse with me on it.”

Dean thanks him and heads home for a snack and to pack his lunch before work, thinking about dark blue eyes and small smiles and hands with slender, delicate fingers.

*

“I love Hotspur,” Dean announces as soon as Castiel rounds the corner and approaches the office. Castiel gives a grin, which is rare, and unlocks the door.

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Dude is badass. I want him to win.”

“How come?”

“Because! He’s, like, the really good son, you know? Fuckin’—excuse me, sorry—Prince Hal is a lazy dick. Hotspur’s what Hal should be.” He sits down in what is becoming his chair, taking the box of donuts from Castiel and setting them down, changing his mind and following the professor into the break room for coffee. “And he knows what he wants. Hal’s just this fu—screw-up who can’t even be bothered to get off his ass and do stuff.”

“You’re very opinionated on this,” Castiel says, grinding coffee beans and glancing at Dean. Dean snorts.

“I don’t know, it just got to me. And what the hell’s up with Falstaff? Dude is weird.”

“He was Shakespeare’s most popular character for many years.”

Dean watches those hands as they work, picking up mugs, pouring coffee, adding way too much sugar into one. He accepts his black coffee and takes a sip, letting the flavor roll down his tongue and into his throat. Castiel makes some good coffee. “Dude is weird,” he repeats, and he gets a laugh out of Castiel. For some reason, it makes Dean super happy.

During their break, after an hour of Dean bitching about Prince Hal and Castiel trying to redirect him to think about other things in the play (“Did you notice that Hal speaks both in verse and prose? Why do you think that is?”), Castiel looks at Dean with his usual intense gaze. “I have a personal question for you. You do not have to answer.”

“Um, okay.” Dean swirls his coffee around in his cup before taking a sip. “What’s that?”

“Why do you take care of your brother if your father is at home?”

Dean looks down at his feet. There are holes in his sneakers. He’ll have to get new ones soon. “I’d rather not answer.”

“Fair enough. How’s Sam doing?”

Dean appreciates the change in topic and smiles at the chance to talk about his brother. “He’s great. Really great. I really wish I could get him a car for his sixteenth birthday in May, but there’s no way we can afford one. Bobby—my dad’s friend—is going to see if he can give me a junker to fix up. I know Sam really wants to be able to drive himself to school, but it’s an hour each way. I don’t know about that yet.”

“You and your brother both seem quite independent. I was like that.”

Dean gives him a look. “Don’t make it sound like you’re all old. You’re not even thirty yet. We’re pretty close in age,” he adds, though unnecessarily. Then he blushes and looks down at his mug again.

“We are,” Castiel agrees, “though sometimes I feel as though I’m about forty. I literally went to school from age three to twenty-six. I don’t think I ever had time to be a kid. My parents were very strict.”

“Do you ever see them?”

Castiel glances at the only frame on his desk. It’s filled with nondescript people. Dean assumes they’re the Miltons. “Sometimes. Once a year or so, usually around a holiday. Once I graduated high school they started traveling much more.”

Dean falls quiet and finishes his coffee. He looks at Castiel, who’s already watching him. “I have a personal question for you.”

Castiel smiles. “Shoot.”

“Your name is—interesting.”

“You mean weird,” he says, eyes bright, and Dean laughs and nods. “It is weird. My parents are Bible scholars, I believe I told you, but my mother is also an angelologist. She named us all after angels. My oldest brother is Michael, then Gabriel and Lucifer—yeah, I know—and Anael, my sister, and then me. My name was supposed to be Cassiel, but my mother slurred when she said it and my father wrote it down wrong.”

Dean laughs at that, grinning. “Well, it’s kind of a cool mistake, at least. It fits you.”

“Does it? That’s good. I don’t know what I’d do if I had a name that wasn’t suitable.”

For the next several minutes, Dean laughs more than he has all week. Saturdays are becoming his favorite days.

*

On the next Friday into Kansas City, Sam finds Dean’s copy of Henry IV, Part One and flips it open. “Did you write all these notes?”

“Yeah. My professor expects me to know shit, remember?”

“Do you like it?”

“What, the play?” Dean asks, merging onto I-70 to Kansas City. “It’s okay.”

“Do you like your teacher too?”

Dean glances at Sam with a raised eyebrow. “Why all the questions? Go to sleep, get some more rest before the long day of knowledge ahead.”

“I just want to talk,” Sam argues, placing Dean’s book back on the seat between them. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you in forever.”

Dean softens a little, pats his brother on the knee. “I know, buddy, but it’ll get easier soon. I won’t need to work so much this semester since your school’s paid for.”

“Dean, you know—”

“No, Sam. You’re staying at Pembroke Hill, all right? It’s the best thing for you and we’re making it work. Don’t worry so much.”

“You’re killing yourself each week just to make enough money for my school and food and some of the bills,” Sam says, sounding far too bitter for fifteen. “If Dad would only—”

“Dad’s got his own problems,” Dean interrupts again. “He does what he can, when he can.”

“I hate the way you make excuses for him.”

“Yeah, well. I hate your haircut.” He really doesn’t, but it makes Sam roll his eyes anyway. The tension in the car eases somewhat. Then goes right back up when Dean reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“Dean—”

“Don’t start. This is the pack I bought three weeks ago and I still have ten left. Let me have this one bone, Sammy, okay?”

“I’ll let you have your cancer bone,” Sam says, a little frosty, but he digs out the lighter for Dean and hands it to him. “I want to hear more about your Shakespeare class. Your teacher sounds cool.”

“He is,” Dean says, and thinks about the intensity of Castiel’s eyes as he lights his cigarette.

*

On the first Saturday of discussing Richard III, Dean is a little late. Castiel’s already in his office with two hot mugs of coffee by the time Dean races in, hair wild, teeth unbrushed, wearing the shirt he slept in.

“Alarm didn’t go off,” he pants, falling into his chair. “Sorry. Last night was late and I put my alarm for p.m. instead of a.m.”

“But you’re here,” Castiel says simply, pushing the mug of coffee to him. “Let’s talk.”

They don’t spend much time talking about the play, though, instead going off on tangents that lead them to other conversations. Dean even calls Ellen, his boss at the bar, and asks if he can be late. She agrees far too quickly, adding that he’s so reliable he can always take off if he needs to. So he plans to come in no later than three, having been asked to cover someone else’s shift in addition to his own. He figures that’ll give him enough time with Castiel, and they pick up right where they left off.

So this is how Dean ends up having lunch at a diner with his professor, discussing life, school, and a little bit of Shakespeare. It’s embarrassing to admit, but this is the most interaction Dean’s had with someone in a long, long time. He doesn’t exactly have friends—only coworkers and classmates—and even if he did have friends, it’s not like he often has time to do nothing. Hanging out doesn’t pay bills.

He takes his time with his bacon cheeseburger because it’s just that good, sipping his milkshake intermittently, listening as Castiel explains common themes found in Richard III and taking notes with his free hand.

“You’re ambidextrous?” Castiel says, sounding surprised. Dean nods, stuffing fries into his mouth.

“Yeah. Always have been. Dad wanted me to be a baseball player—switch-hitter, you know—but I was never that great at it.”

“That’s very interesting,” he says, and Dean feels that hot gaze on him. It makes him blush a little.

“Not really. I mean, not to me.”

“I’m clumsy with my hands, so I find it fascinating.”

Dean looks up in surprise. “You have nice hands, though.”

There’s an awkward silence. Castiel looks as though he’s trying to hide a smile. Dean stares down at his fries. “I mean, you know,” he says, and can’t finish because he has no idea what he means.

Castiel changes the subject back to Shakespeare and Dean’s incredibly grateful for it. He doesn’t like feeling embarrassed—it makes him hot and prickly all over, like he’s about to combust—and Castiel seems to know it, easily finding another avenue of conversation.

When they get the check for lunch, Castiel pulls out his credit card and hands it to the waitress. Dean stares at him.

“Hey, um.” He wants to say that he has cash, thank you very much, but Castiel just looks at him again and Dean can’t say shit.

“Dean,” he says patiently, “I have noticed something about you.”

“And what’s that? Also, what does it have to do with you buying me lunch?”

His professor smiles and leans forward just a little. “I have noticed that you are one of the hardest working men I think I’ve ever met. You put in over forty hours a week every week, you are taking fifteen credit hours, you bring your brother to his private school—for which you pay—four hours a day, you fix meals for him and take care of your home. And you are only twenty-four. I have noticed that you don’t seem to get a lot of thanks for what you do either, and neither do you think you deserve it, for it is what you are supposed to do. Family takes care of one another. So this is simply me thanking you for all your hard work. Please accept it.”

Dean’s at a loss for words now, He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. He stares at Castiel’s vivid blue eyes until Castiel pushes his milkshake closer. “Finish that up. Would you like any dessert?”

“I’m good,” Dean says, voice small, and he sucks down the last bit of his milkshake. He doesn’t know what to feel at that moment. He recognizes that he has a crush on his professor, but he figures it happens often, and he can sometimes forget that Castiel is a man, like him, and that men shouldn’t feel such things for other men. He learned that in high school when his dad caught him masturbating to the Kansas City Royals’ charity beefcake calendar.

“You’ve made my Saturdays quite enjoyable,” Castiel says, signing his name on the receipt and standing up. “Thanks for that.”

Dean blushes again and can’t seem to fucking stop. “Thanks for letting me have Saturdays in the first place.”

“Next week, would you like to meet for coffee instead of at my office?”

It sounds like a date. Dean wouldn’t mind—no, it’s not a date, it’s his professor, who is male, so therefore not a date. “Yeah, that’d be cool, thanks.”

Even while serving beer and liquor to the Roadhouse’s usual patrons, Dean’s brain is occupied by Castiel despite his best efforts. He goes home with a blonde that night and fucks her until he forgets navy blue eyes and tousled dark hair.

*

Sam flips through Macbeth during breakfast, chewing his bagel slowly. “Do you like this one?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean says, frying a couple of eggs for himself. “Lady Macbeth is a total bitch and I love her. She’s fucking crazy.” He sits at the kitchen table with a glass of orange juice, eating quickly so they aren’t late. “Did you want to go see a movie tonight?”

“Don’t you have to work?”

“I let Jo take my shift. She wants a Prada purse or something.” It isn’t exactly the truth. He’s taking the night off because he has to catch up on homework, and he’s been missing his little brother something fierce.

The look on Sam’s face is worth losing the fifty bucks he tends to make on Thursday nights. “Seriously? A   
movie?”

“Jesus, Sammy, don’t sound like a friggin’ Disney Channel show. It’s just a movie.”

“We haven’t done that in a long time,” Sam says, and Dean has to turn away, eyes glassy.

“I know, little brother. We’ll do it tonight. And how about we get ice-cream after?”

“Dude, yes,” Sam grins, and that expression carries Dean’s tired body through his day.

 

He’s caught up on his homework and Sam’s done writing his paper by seven that night. Their dad is passed out on the couch, so the brothers sneak out to the car. John doesn’t like when they stay out on a school night.

They see a really awful action flick but it works out okay because they make fun of it the whole way through, sharing popcorn and laughing. With a pang of loneliness, Dean realizes that Sam’s only going to be around for a couple more years before heading off to bigger and better things, hopefully with a full scholarship. He’s saving up in case, though, already has a couple thousand dollars in his savings account. He figures that if Sam does get a full ride, he can spend that money on getting him a decent car.

They walk from the movie theater to the Marble Slab a few blocks over, and Dean freezes when they step through the jingling door. Castiel is sitting at the table closest to the register with a gorgeous redhead. For some reason, just for a second, he feels the sting of betrayal. Then he pushes it away quickly, because what the fuck, he’s not dating his teacher.

“Do you know what you want?” Sam asks, hands in his pockets, and Dean looks up at him—when the hell did Sam grow so much?—and shrugs.

“I don’t know. What are you feeling?”

“Dean?”

Dean stills his expression and turns that little bit to smile at Castiel, who’s clearly happy to see him. “Hey, teach.”

“So this is Dean,” the woman says, and Dean blushes because it means Castiel has talked about him.

“This is Dean,” Castiel confirms, glancing at Sam. “And you must be Sam, yes?”

Sam blinks at Dean, then nods. Dean remembers his manners. “Sammy, this is Castiel, my professor. Cas, Sammy.”

Castiel shakes Sam’s hand, then indicates the redhead. “This is Anael, my sister. We call her Anna.”

Anna smiles at the Winchesters, in that same small way that Castiel has, and Dean feels some tension bleed from his muscles. Not his girlfriend or his wife. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Sam says, shy, standing just behind Dean even though he’s almost two inches taller now. Dean rolls his eyes a little and speaks to the Milton siblings, trying not to grin too much at Castiel.

“We just came from a movie.”

“I thought you worked tonight?”

Dean chuckles. “I took off. Had some homework to do and wanted to hang out with him.”

“You told me Jo wanted your shift!” Sam protests, giving Dean one of his Looks. “Dean.”

“She really does want that Prada purse,” Dean insists. “I just…am helping her get there.”

Castiel chuckles a little bit and the sound makes Dean happy. “We just came from a movie too. It wasn’t that great, so we figured ice-cream might be in order.”

“Oh, ice-cream was totally on our list,” Dean says, nudging Sam. “Speaking of ice-cream, go get what you want. Use my card.”

Sam smiles at the brother and sister, still shy, mumbling a “nicetomeetyou” before turning to the counter. Anna excuses herself to go to the restroom. Dean watches Castiel with as much calm as he can muster. “So.”

“So,” the professor responds, eyes bright.

Dean blushes again, looks down at his feet. “Oh, shut up.”

Castiel laughs and reaches out to pat him on the shoulder. “Are you weirded out seeing your teacher outside of school?”

“Kind of. I don’t know, it’s like you’re a person now, you know? Not that you weren’t before, but. It’s hard to imagine you anywhere else but your office with all your books.”

Castiel stands a little closer to him; not for the first time, Dean notices the sharp spokes of lighter blue at the center of his irises. “That reminds me, how are you liking Macbeth?”

“Dude, I really like it. Lady Macbeth is a nutjob in so many awesome ways.”

Castiel seems pleased. “I knew you would. Good. I can’t wait to talk to you about it on Saturday.”

Dean’s heart lurches in his chest a little and he shifts his stance, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, trying not to look overeager. “Yeah, same here. I’ll be sure to read up through Act III.”

“That sounds like a very good plan.” Castiel glances back as Anna approaches, then gives Dean another one of those smiles, a totally genuine one. “Nice running into you, Dean. You have a good night with your brother.”

“Have fun,” Dean says, something caught in his throat. He watches the two of them leave and turns back to Sam once Castiel’s out of sight. “Did you get your ice-cream yet?”

Sam’s got a funny expression on his face. “Yeah. Just waiting for you.”

Dean orders chocolate ice-cream with marshmallows. He can’t stop smiling now.

*

He doesn’t exactly say it aloud, not even to himself, but Dean takes time in choosing his clothes (which makes no sense, seeing as how he has t-shirts, flannel button-downs, and that’s about it) before heading to the coffee shop near the school to meet with Castiel. After running into him at Marble Slab, his crush may have gotten even bigger. Dean grumbles with himself about it, but reconciles that he’s not actually doing anything other than crush, so it should be okay.

He gets there a little earlier and orders coffee for both himself and Castiel, settling in a chair by the front, book and notebook out and ready. He idly reads over the notes he’s made and makes a few more, looking up when he feels someone approaching him. He tries not to do the thing where his eyes sweep across Castiel’s body, but it’s a little hard. Dean’s never seen him look so casual in ripped jeans and a retro Royals t-shirt.

“Laundry day?” Dean asks with a grin, and Castiel rolls his eyes and reaches for his cup of coffee.

“Actually, yes. I was supposed to do it last night but I got caught up in the Star Wars marathon on Spike.”

“That’s an acceptable reason not to do laundry.”

“I thought so too.” He tilts his head to the side and smiles at Dean again. “Good morning.”

Dean barely refrains from sighing. “Good morning.” And it really is.

“So. Macbeth.”

“Is awesome,” Dean says immediately, leaning forward. “I really like those witches too.”

“Most people do,” Castiel smiles, and he watches Dean with a soft affection that even Dean can see. “What else? What themes do you see in the first three acts?”

They discuss the idea of absolute power corrupting absolutely, Dean taking careful notes and asking questions. Most of their two hours is spent on Macbeth, and for about fifteen minutes Dean sits quietly while Castiel talks, watching those hands gesture and move. They really are nice hands.

They stop about ten minutes early and talk about other things. Dean brings up some of the schools Sam’s looking at, and Castiel thinks for a moment before saying, “Tell him to look into Stanford. I think he’d fit in well there.”

“Isn’t that, like, super expensive?”

“Sam will get a scholarship,” he says, as if it’s a final thing. Dean feels a sudden surge of affection towards his professor and can’t help but to smile.

“Yeah, hopefully. He’s so smart.”

“So are you, Dean. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. I have better conversations with you about Shakespeare than I do with most of my class.”

Dean’s surprised to hear that and can’t help the blush that spreads into his cheeks, so he looks down at his hands, rolling his empty coffee cup in his fingers. “I don’t know about that.”

“Truly. I don’t give compliments—you have to earn them. It really has been a pleasure discussing literature with you.”

And seriously, what the hell can Dean say to that? He mumbles something stupid and scratches the back of his neck. He’s never thought of himself as smart. Capable, sure, and damn inventive when he needs to be. He’s good at the things he knows how to do—bartend, take care of Sam, fix cars. But he’s not brainy.

“Dean,” Castiel begins, but he’s interrupted by Dean’s phone ringing in his pocket. Dean slides it out and flips it open.

“Dad? Hey, what’s—what? Dad! What the hell is—Dad!” Dean pulls the phone away and stares at it, heart beating harder. “Dad, where’s Sam? Where’s Sam?”

His dad hangs up. So does Dean. He stands and runs a hand through his hair, biting his tongue hard to keep the tears away. “I think my dad just burned our house down.”


	2. PART 2

It isn’t burned down, not totally. But there’s not much left to save.

Dean stands at the curb with his brother and his still-drunk father, staring as the fire department finishes putting out the last of the flames. The blue panel on the house is black now, the roof completely gone. Dean thinks about the front porch, where he and Sam carved their names and dates—both significant and random, whenever it struck their fancy—into the wood. The front porch is still there, but as Dean watches it collapses beneath the weight of burnt wood and water.

Sam’s face is tight and still, and he refuses to speak to John, who keeps trying to ask him about school.

“What are we going to do?” Sam asks, and he’s looking at Dean for guidance. Dean doesn’t know what to say. This is way beyond his duties, and all he can think is that he’s a son, not a father, he doesn’t want this responsibility. Instead he wants to ask their dad, to be lead, but John’s not even really there with them. Dean clenches his jaw and takes a breath.

“We’ll…”

“Dean, our clothes,” Sam says, eyebrows drawn in anger. “Our clothes, my schoolwork, your schoolwork. Our computers. Everything.”

“We might be able to save some things.” Even as Dean says it, he knows it’s probably a lie. Their house may have been a piece of shit, mostly in disrepair though Dean had done as much as he was able to, but it was a fucking roof over their fucking heads. It was their home, for God’s sake. No matter how shitty it got, no matter how many times Dean had to carry their father into his bedroom or clean up his puke or Google a tutorial on how to replace faulty wiring, it was their fucking home. It was paid off. It was theirs.

And because their father, drunk and hungry, had left a pot of whatthefuckever on the stove and fallen asleep on the couch, they didn’t have a home anymore. And Dean had just paid the electricity bill too.

“Dean, we can’t save shit,” Sam snaps, voice high-pitched.

“Don’t talk like that,” John says, glaring at his youngest son. “There’s no need for language like that.”

Dean moves towards Sam, holding up a hand, but Sam leans into John’s face, staring him in the eye. “Fuck. You. This is your fault.”

John takes a swing but Sam sidesteps it easily, watching as John stumbles off the curb and into the street. Dean’s never seen Sam look so angry, tears pushing from his eyes. “Dean, what are we going to do?”

Dean has nothing to say to that. He pulls his brother in for a hug and rubs his back. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, and holds Sam while his shoulders shake. John belches and tries to sit up but he can’t. Dean doesn’t help him.

They answer questions for a little while and John sits in the ambulance to get looked at for smoke inhalation. Sam wasn’t home when it happened. Dean’s grateful for that. If he lost his brother, he doesn’t know what he’d do, but he knows life’s not worth it without Sam.

“What are we going to do?” Sam asks again, sitting on the curb with Dean, drinking a bottle of water one of the neighbors brought him.

“I’ll call Bobby,” Dean says slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m sure Dad can stay with him, I think he’s got a spare bedroom or couch. You have any friends from school you can stay with?”

“What about you?”

Dean waves his hand. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll figure something out. Call your friends.” He feels panic clawing at his chest for a moment—where the fuck were they going to stay after this?—but stifles it with a deep breath. He wants a cigarette but feels that might be in poor taste considering the charred remains of their house in front of them.

“Dean—”

“Sam, seriously. You know Ellen would let me sleep at the Roadhouse if I had to. Just call your friends. It’ll be easier for you to stay there.” He thinks about the money he has in his savings account—Sam’s college fund, the small portion he’s set aside for a full thirty-day rehabilitation stay—and presses a hand to his eyes. He can’t afford to buy a house. His dad gets the bare minimum of unemployment, then spends a hefty portion of it on Wild Turkey. He could maybe look into a two-bedroom apartment, but it wouldn’t last for long.

With more pain than he cares to admit, he realizes he won’t get his degree. He can’t. Not now. “It’ll be okay, Sammy. Just call your friends. We’ll work it out.” He won’t cry in front of Sam, but fuck, does he want to.

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” Sam hisses, taking Dean’s hand and squeezing it hard. “Dad should—”

“Dad can’t, Sam. We’ll be okay, I promise.” Sometimes promises were the only thing he had. Sam’s looking at him, he can feel it, but he keeps his eyes on the pavement in front of him. Sam uses his free hand to dial some numbers. Dean pulls his phone out and calls Bobby, gets permission to take their dad to Bobby’s house after the fire department leaves.

Dean realizes that all of his albums are probably toast, along with the rest of his Shakespeare plays for Castiel’s class. He puts his head on his arms, arms on his knees, takes breaths until he knows he won’t break.

*

Dean,

I haven’t heard from you in three days and you aren’t answering my phonecalls. I’m worried. I spoke with the registrar and you have not attended your other classes. Please call me.

—C

Dean closes down his email and leaves the library before they can kick him out. He pulls out his checklist and sees what he has left to do. With the money set aside for his dad’s rehab, he bought Sam new clothes and a new laptop, gave him enough money to last him through the week, made sure he was settled in at his friend Darren’s house. He took all the shifts he could at the Roadhouse, but there weren’t many more he could take. Ellen had given him every available hour.

He lied and told everyone he was staying with this girl he knew, but instead he parked his 1985 Chevy Nova at a truck stop on I-70 and slept (badly) in the backseat. He’s too proud to ask for help and hates himself for it. So does his back. It feels like his spine is permanently twisted.

During his work at Bobby’s shop, Dean glimpses his dad going in and out of Bobby’s house, which is situated just a little ways off the lot. John makes eye contact with him and Dean quickly looks away. Bobby doesn’t say much other than to tell Dean he’s doing a good job, and Dean takes the praise and holds onto it as hard as he can.

After getting dinner at McDonald’s, Dean scrolls through his phone’s directory, landing on Castiel’s name. He really should call him, let his professor know that a.) he’s okay and b.) he’s dropping the class. It’s the least he can do. So he finishes his Coke and tosses his trash and calls Castiel.

The answer is immediate. “Dean? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, yeah. Sorry for not getting in touch with you.” The concern in the professor’s voice is too much for him to handle. His throat tightens hard.

“Where are you?”

“Just got some dinner.”

“You haven’t gone to class. Is your family all right?”

“They’re okay. Sam’s staying with some friends from school. My dad’s at Bobby’s.”

“And you?”

Dean pauses. He can’t lie to this man and he doesn’t much want to. “Sleeping in my car at a truck stop.”

Castiel curses, and Dean thinks it’s the first time he’s ever done so. “That’s unacceptable. Don’t you have any friends you can stay with?”

“I don’t really have friends,” Dean says, and he puts a hand over his mouth as he starts to cry. Everything hits him all at once, the chin-up attitude he’s kept this whole time dissolving like sugar on the tongue. He’s not tough. He’s not strong. He’s not even very smart. Of course everything falls to pieces—Dean’s made of nothing but paper, a tower of cards, one breath will blow him over.

Castiel is quiet for a long moment. “Do you have a pen and something to write on?” He waits for Dean to respond. Dean takes a while to calm down.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Write this down.”

Dean balks as soon as he hears an address. “No, no, no. It’s fine, okay? I’ve just. I’ve got to work it—”

“I did not ask you, I am telling you. I have a four-bedroom house. It’s ridiculous for you to stay in your vehicle when I have three rooms you can use. And my basement is fully furnished. It would be like having your own place.”

“I can’t—”

“We’ll talk when you get here.” He pauses, huffs a little. “Dean, please.”

And Dean can’t say no to that.

 

Castiel lives in a nice neighborhood, much nicer than anything Dean’s used to. He parks along the curb at the front of the house and notices, first, how big and green the lawn is. He wonders if Castiel pays for landscaping. Probably.

He climbs out of his car and shuts the rusty door. He cried the entire way there so he knows his eyes are probably red and puffy; he forcibly composes himself before heading up the short driveway.

The house is pretty big and angular, with khaki paneled siding and a dark brown garage door. It looks maintained. Even the windows are clear and clean. Before he can knock, Castiel opens the door and they look at each other for a long moment.

“Come in,” he says, holding the door open for Dean, who steps in feeling awkward, out of place, and rather like a charity case. The front entryway is clean and neat and the light hardwood floors shine. To his left there’s a breakfast nook, with cream-colored carpet, a small table, and four matching chairs. On the coat rack beside the front door is Castiel’s black peacoat.

“Sorry I didn’t call,” Dean says as a greeting, staring at his feet. He bends to take his shoes off, not wanting to scuff the floor. His socks have holes in them. He feels pathetic.

“You should be,” Castiel says, and Dean looks up at him. There’s a softness to his expression, though, and he locks the front door. “Come on. Pick a room.”

“I can’t—”

“You’re going to. I’m not having you sleep in your car, Dean. That’s dumb.” He jerks his head and Dean follows.

“I can pay you,” he says, uncertain now. He knows Castiel is his professor but he certainly doesn’t feel it right now. “I just need a week or so until I can figure out what else to do.”

“Here’s the first bedroom,” Castiel says instead, flipping on a light. “This is where my brother Gabe usually stays, but I cleaned it since he’s been in here, so you don’t have to worry about finding anything unsavory.”

The joke does nothing for Dean, who blinks at the queen-sized bed and black comforter with confusion. He looks at Castiel now, jaw tight. “Why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t need charity, okay?”

“I never presumed that this was charity. I was pretty sure we were friends.”

The statement hurts a little and Dean messes up his hair again. “Cas, I appreciate it, but—”

“Good. I’m glad you do. I’m happy to do it. Let me show you the other rooms.”

Dean goes along on the little tour, seeing the living room and the den and the deck in the back yard, but he doesn’t really process it. He’s thinking about where the fuck they’re going to live after this, and wondering how long he can put off his degree before he has to start over. He’s been trying for six years, for Christ’s sake.

Castiel shows him the basement, which, indeed, looks like a miniature apartment. The walls are a dark navy blue, and there’s a little nook area with a microwave, a sink, a few cabinets and a mini-fridge, as well as a small bathroom. A full-sized bed sits against one wall, a couch along the other. There’s even a TV and a desk with a computer.

“This would probably be best for you,” Castiel says, looking around the room with Dean. “It’s pretty much fully-contained. Plus there’s an entrance over there, by the bathroom, if you’d feel more comfortable with that, rather than going through the first floor.”

Dean rubs at the back of his neck and takes a shaky breath. “If I could just have a week,” he says, tentative, and jerks in surprise when Castiel takes his hand.

“Whatever you need. I will enjoy your company for as long as you’re here.”

Dean chews hard enough on his lip to taste blood. He swallows several times before attempting to speak. “My dad got drunk, tried to cook, and failed. Burned the house down way beyond repair. No homeowner’s insurance.”

Castiel tightens his grip and Dean returns it. The touch is both painful and soothing at the same time, like pulling a hangnail. “I sent Sam to a friend’s,” he continues. “Tried to take more shifts at the bar. Ellen—my boss—is helping me as much as she can. I can’t finish my degree. I’ve got to find a better job and get a new place and help Sam, and I’m trying to get my dad into a rehab program but the one I can get him into in Wichita is six thousand dollars, and I lost the only pictures of my mother I had.”

Castiel’s arms are around him before the first tears fall. “Breathe,” he says, and Dean gasps and clutches at him, breaking down hard. He starts babbling uncontrollably, saying something about his savings account and college for Sam and how he’s got no clothes other than what he’s wearing and how hurt he is by his dad, and why the fuck does he always have to be the adult, and why can’t things be good for once, and how long can he put off his degree before he has to start over.

Castiel threads fingers through Dean’s short hair, one hand rubbing his back, and waits until he’s done talking. “First of all, you aren’t stopping your degree yet, not when you’re so close.”

“Cas, I appreciate you letting me stay with you, but that can’t be long term.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” He presses a cool hand to the back of Dean’s neck for a moment, voice very soft. “For now, you’ll continue exactly as you were. You will go to class and work. If you would prefer Sam be closer to you, please let him know that he is free to stay here as well, either with you or in any of the other guest rooms.”

Dean doesn’t point out that they’ve never had their own rooms. “Cas, I can’t.”

“You can and you will.” He cups Dean’s face in his palms and Dean was right about him having very nice hands. “We’re friends, right?”

Dean only nods. His voice won’t work now. He feels hot all over.

“Friends help each other. Wouldn’t you do this for me?”

“Yes,” Dean says, quiet, because he would, without question.

“Then why is it different me doing it for you?”

“You’re my teacher.”

“I’ve considered that, yes. But I don’t think you’ll take advantage of the situation, will you?”

Dean blinks at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Castiel smiles a little, as if Dean gave him the answer to the question. “My point exactly. It’s not as if I don’t have the space, and with as busy as I am you’ll have much time to yourself. I won’t step on your toes and you won’t step on mine.”

Dean doesn’t know why he’s fighting so hard except that he feels like he should. “I want to pay you.”

“You wouldn’t pay a friend,” Castiel points out, and finally drops his hands. His touch is missed immediately. “Don’t worry about it so much, Dean. Sometimes good things do happen. And while you’re here, I won’t be quite so lonely.”

“Don’t you have other teacher friends you hang out with?”

Castiel smiles just a little. “Sometimes. But I find most of them to be overbearing and I value my privacy.”  
Dean smiles back at that. Some of the pressure eases in his chest. “Thank you.”

“Of course. You should go get some clothes, though.”

With a sigh and a nod, Dean pulls out his wallet and looks at what he has in his bank account, scribbled on the back of his receipt. “Yeah, I guess I’ll have to.”

“Let me go with you and I can get a key made.”

“Cas—”

“You’ll need one,” he butts in, “especially with your schedule. Doesn’t it make sense?”

Dean shrugs a little. He can’t argue with that. Castiel pats his shoulder and leads him back upstairs. Once they’re outside, Dean goes into his glove compartment and fishes out the pack of cigarettes. Castiel says nothing, but holds his hand out for one. Dean smiles again.

Nothing in the fucked up situation is close to being okay just yet, but it’s better than sleeping in his car.

*

 

Dean still hasn’t spoken to his dad once the next weekend rolls around, but he does coax Sam into agreeing to stay with Castiel, despite Sam’s protests that this is your teacher, Dean, isn’t that weird? because it’s weird as hell but is the best option they’ve got.

Dean and Castiel live well together. Dean tries not to think about what that means, exactly, but there isn’t any awkward tension between them once they settle into a routine. Castiel likes to cook but hates doing dishes, so Dean cleans up in exchange for kind of amazing meals. Though their schedules are radically different they still manage to see each other a couple of times a day. He thinks Castiel might be getting up earlier than usual to see him and that makes Dean feel both warm and strange inside.

Not surprising, what with his living room filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, Sam and Castiel get along very well. In the afternoons after Dean brings Sam home from school, they all sit at the kitchen table and do homework, Castiel usually grading and helping Sam with his papers. Dean feels rather domestic and likes it, though he keeps waiting for the bottom to fall out.

He’s doing some yard work (it’s the only kind of thing Castiel will let him do for repayment) when he goes into the garage to look for a shovel to work on the flower beds and finds a car, one that isn’t Castiel’s Honda Fit. He stares at it for a long moment before heading inside.

“Hey, Cas?”

“In the office.”

Dean goes upstairs and finds Castiel doing more paperwork, sitting behind his big oak desk, books scattered around him—Bibles, literary criticism, and even an MLA Handbook. “Um, why didn’t you tell me you have a classic car in your garage?”

“What?”

“I was looking for a shovel and I found a 1967 Chevy Impala.”

Castiel smiles suddenly, sliding off his glasses (he usually wears contacts, but sometimes, he says, his allergies prevent him from putting them in). “Oh, that’s my brother’s. He meant to restore it but never got around to it. I don’t know how to do stuff like that, so I just left it in there. I didn’t know if he’d want it back or not.”

Dean starts to say something then stops. He can feel the itch in his bones, the need to work on such a magnificent vehicular specimen. “Would. I mean. Talk to him about it, but I could restore it for him.”

“Really?” Castiel tilts his head a little. “Wow, you’re a jack of all trades, aren’t you?”

Dean flushes a bit and wipes his hand across his sweaty forehead. “Not really. I just know my way around cars. I could do it. I’d really like to.”

“How much do you think it’ll cost?”

“I’ll have to take it apart to see.” He almost says he’ll pay for the parts, but knows he can’t afford it. He literally feels himself salivating, though.

Castiel thinks for a moment. “I think he’d like that. Go ahead and do it.”

“…Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not? Might as well get it up and running, right?”

Dean wishes he could fix it up and buy it from Castiel’s brother, maybe give it to Sam for school. He figures he can always ask when the time comes. “Okay, cool. I’ll need more space, though. Um, could I—”

“You can take it out of the garage. Will the driveway give you enough space?”

Dean chews on his lip. “Yeah, it will.” It would be an all-day project, though, maybe two, to get the car apart and inspect everything. But it’ll give him something to do with his hands. And maybe this could be a way for him to repay Castiel more, even though the car isn’t for him.

“What’s that look for, Dean?”

“It’ll take a while, that’s all.”

“Won’t you be here a while?”

Dean meets his eyes and hesitates, but Castiel just snorts and waves him away. “You’ll be here a while. Go.”

“I’ll finish with the yard first.”

“I pay someone to do the yard. Don’t worry about it. Go have fun with the car.”

Dean grins at him, leans over the desk to clap him on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

Castiel catches his hand before he can pull away, and there’s a tension between them that isn’t uncomfortable. Or unwanted. “Can you take off of work tonight?”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to speak with you and Sam about something.”

Dean frowns and pulls his hand away. “About what? What’s wrong?”

“Why do you always assume that something’s wrong?”

“Because it usually is,” he says, feeling sick. “What is it?” He steels his expression, waiting for it. Castiel watches him for a moment, stands and leans against the edge of the desk nearest Dean.

“First of all, I’d like to start working with Sam on his college applications. I’d also like to discuss you cutting back your work hours and focusing more on school.”

Dean frowns at him. “Dude, you know I have to work. You know why I have to work, too.”

“Yes, I do. Because you are saving for your brother’s school, for you father, and you usually are the one to pay the bills.”

“That’s right,” he says, incensed. “So what the hell?” He has no fucking right to ask something like this of Dean, not when he knows what Dean’s life is like. It’s ridiculous and wrong and—

“Dean. You want to calm down and listen for a moment?”

Dean shuts his mouth.

“Thank you,” Castiel says dryly. “I would have preferred discussing this with your brother, but seeing as how you are impatient, I will have to repeat this twice. Listen to me, Dean. Are you listening?”

“I’m listening, Cas.”

“Sam will not need you to pay for his school. I guarantee you that he will get a full ride wherever he chooses to go.” The conviction in his voice is nearly palpable. Dean’s never heard him sound quite so assured.

“That’s not—”

“It is guaranteed, for Sam. So you can put that out of your head. Your father is living with Bobby, is he not?”

“Yes.” Dean grits his teeth. He’s not entirely sure where this conversation is going, but he knows he won’t like it.

“So you are not paying bills.”

“We’ll have to find somewhere to live soon.”

Castiel waves that away as if it’s unimportant. “But for now, you don’t. I was wondering if you and Sam would like to live here until the school year is over. You will be graduating in May, and with your considerable skill set—and my connections—I know I can find you a good, steady, high-paying job that you will enjoy.”

Dean snorts. “Right.”

“I’m serious. As long as you have your degree, I can make sure that you are comfortable.” He watches Dean with those soft blue eyes. “You would be able to get help for your father. And buy a home for your family. I promise you.”

Dean doesn’t believe in promises if they aren’t from Sam. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you do that?”

Castiel looks down at his feet for a moment, his dark hair shifting across his forehead. “Because besides being uncommonly kind, you’re the hardest working man I’ve ever met. And to be honest, it makes me feel—I had everything handed to me growing up. I was never left wanting for anything. I had an easy childhood.” He looks up, more serious than Dean’s ever seen him. “You had the exact opposite. Yet, for it, you’re stronger than I’ll ever be. I just want to help you where no one else has. You’ve got so much potential.”

“There’s a catch,” Dean says slowly. “There’s always a catch.”

“Sure there is,” Castiel replies, easily. “I want you to make good grades. And get eight hours of sleep a night. And keep your brother on the track he’s on. You’re very, very good to him. He’s lucky to have you.”

Dean never thinks of it that way. He knows he’s the lucky one. “Cas, I don’t think I can do that.” It means depending too much on someone else, someone who could rip it all from his hands and leave him more broken than before.

“I’d like you to consider it. Speak with Sam. You think of everyone else before yourself. I’m offering you the chance to think about yourself.”

“That’s too much money to ask from you.”

Castiel actually rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Dean. Not to belittle you or anything, but I have two million dollars in my savings account. I wasn’t lying when I said my parents are wealthy.”

Dean’s jaw drops, because that’s one hell of a lot of zeros. “Are you fucking kidding me.”

“No, I’m not. And I like Sam’s company. He’s intriguing and very intelligent.” He hesitates, as if he’s not sure if he should speak again or not. “And I like your company as well, of course.”

Dean picks at his cuticles for something to do, looking down at his hands. In his peripheral vision he sees Castiel reaching for him. “Dean.”

“Cas.”

A finger presses to his chin, tilts his face up. “Dean, please think about it. I don’t intend to…screw you over in any way. I want to help your family because you’re good people. This isn’t charity. If it were charity I could get a tax write off.”

Dean smiles at that, eyes a little glassy. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” He drops his hand, still gazing at Dean. “Sometimes bad things happen to good people. I just want to help. You can trust me.”

Dean wants to believe that, genuinely he does, but certain experiences have taught him otherwise. He’s not one to rain on Castiel’s parade, though, and if Castiel feels better tossing words like trust and help around, then so be it. “I’m gonna go inventory that car.”

“Keys are on the hook by the front door.” He pauses again, reaches out to brush some dirt off of Dean’s shirt. “Can you take off tonight?”

“Pretty sure I can,” Dean murmurs, backing away before he gets himself into trouble. “I’ll let Sammy know.”

Castiel replies but Dean doesn’t hear it with his heart pounding so loud in his chest.

*

Sam, of course, with his girl crush on Castiel, is fully on board with the offer. “Dean, you have no idea how it makes me feel to know that you have to kill yourself just to keep us above water,” he says, with tears in his eyes and a trembling lip, and dammit, fuck him for doing that and knowing what it does to Dean. He’s still not sure if Sam’s doing it on purpose or not. “If he can help us out, why not take it? Huh? It’s way more than Dad’s ever done. And Cas is so nice. I don’t think he’s trying to gyp us or anything.”

“It’s just. It’s a lot to ask for.”

“Yes,” Sam says carefully, “but we haven’t asked. He’s offered. Just take it, Dean.”

Against his better judgment, and against everything he’s learned in his twenty-four years, Dean concedes. With Bobby’s quick permission, he works Mondays and Wednesdays only at the auto shop, plus the weekends at the bar, which give him a ballpark total of twenty-nine hours a week. He doesn’t even know what to do with this sudden freetime, almost lost when he wakes up that first Tuesday, brings Sam to school, and comes home to stare at the clock for half an hour, feeling out of place and late and as if he’s done something wrong. So much free time that he hasn’t had in years.

So he works on the Impala.

It really is a thing of beauty, though many of the parts are either rusted or worn. Dean takes very careful inventory of everything, noting every serial and manufacturer’s number he can find, Googling for hours on different parts and costs. Counting in the free labor—because Dean enjoys working with cars so much—he’s come up with some price plans.

On the next Saturday morning, while he and Castiel are drinking coffee and preparing to discuss As You Like It, acts one and two, Dean exhales and shows him the paper. “Okay, here’s what we’re looking at for that car.”

“What is all this, exactly?”

“There’s a few different ways to restore a car. You can go for broke and find all the original factory parts and pay out the ass, find the high end stuff that’ll run well but might not be original, or simply go with budget purposes just to get it driving.”

“What do you suggest?”

“For that car? Dude, it would be well over a hundred grand to find the original factory parts for everything it needs, not to mention reworking the body because of the rust, plus a paint job and the interior and all sorts of things. If your brother can afford it, I’d say go with the second tier. That’ll run him about sixty thousand. And she’ll be gorgeous.” Dean can see it in his head now, the slick, shiny black paint and the leather upholstery; he can hear the grumbling purr of the engine, feel the gears shifting smoothly. Sometimes the thought of that car in her restored glory is all it takes to get him hot and bothered.

“He can afford it,” Castiel smiles. “I will let him know and get his credit card number. Can you order the parts online?”

Dean almost wiggles in his seat out of excitement. “Yeah, definitely. I’m finding good stuff.”

“And what about the cost of the labor?”

“Cas, shut up. I won’t let him pay me to do the labor. I like doing it. I don’t mind doing that for free. It would be like me paying you to read books or something.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and pushes the paper back towards him. “All right, Dean, you’ve made your point. Open your book, class is in session.”

 

Dean has to admit that he’s doing better in school. And he’s putting on some of the weight he’d lost due to stress and lack of sleep. He and Sam don’t bicker as much anymore, and he’s got more energy now, going on morning runs with Castiel before bringing Sam to school. He doesn’t find himself often thinking of his father, checking in with Bobby only on work days. He mentions to Bobby that he doesn’t like burdening him, but Bobby tells him to shut up and take care of himself. For the first time since he was fourteen, he does.

But something’s been prickling at the back of his mind for a while. As the weather turns colder, and he and Sam go shopping for warmer clothes, and as Castiel starts to light the fireplace to warm the house, Dean realizes that he’s got more than a crush on his professor—friend? best friend?—and it kind of scares him.

There’s just something about him, but isn’t that always how it goes? Isn’t it always just something about that person? He can’t ignore it any longer, though, and he thinks that Castiel might sense something too. They touch more often now, linger with it, hands on shoulders or backs, bumping together in the kitchen as though it’s smaller than it really is. Castiel sometimes has personal space issues, but Dean doesn’t mind anymore. He likes whatever shampoo Castiel uses and finds himself in Walmart sniffing different brands to see if he can find it.

He’s got it bad, whatever it is, and he’s happy enough that he can’t bring himself to care or worry too much. The only thing he’s worried about is fucking something up and putting Sam in jeopardy. So even though he longs sometimes to play with Castiel’s soft hands, or maybe brush those dry lips with his own, he doesn’t.

But every now and then he and Castiel will find themselves alone in the kitchen, and they’ll stand close together and talk in hushed tones, not looking at one other. That’s enough. It fills Dean with a contentment he’s rarely known.

They get a week off for Thanksgiving break and Dean takes off of work too. He’s making progress with the Impala, even though it’s slow, but it’s enjoyable work. Castiel parks his Fit in the street now, along the curb, and gives Dean the entire garage to work with. He even gets him a space heater so Dean doesn’t shiver himself into a coma during the many hours he spends out there.

They have a quiet Thanksgiving dinner together and Sam falls asleep on Castiel’s shoulder on the couch, right in the middle of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. Castiel looks at him with genuine affection, then over at Dean, who’s curled up in the giant armchair, his stomach stuffed to bursting with turkey and honey ham and three different kinds of pie.

“I love your brother,” he says quietly. “You two are lucky you have one another.”

“We are,” Dean agrees sleepily. “He’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade a goddamn thing.”  
Eventually, an hour or so later, Sam wakes up and trudges up to his room. Dean stifles a yawn and stretches out, hands on his stomach. “Is it sad that I’m still on the verge of puking but I could go for more pie?”

“Nope,” Castiel smiles. “I’m considering it myself. Come on, let’s split a piece.”

Dean groans and shakes his head. “Dude, I can’t. Literally can’t.”

“Your stomach’s been settling for two hours. Quit complaining.” He rises to his feet and heads into the kitchen. Dean watches him move, all lithe strides and an easy pace, before getting up himself and following.

The fire crackles and the TV’s on low, the only sounds in the first floor of the house. Dean hears water running upstairs, which means Sam’s decided to shower before bed. There’s that damn tension again, building between them like it does every time they’re alone.

Castiel cuts a slice of cherry pie and heats it up in the microwave, watching it spin for a few seconds. “How far along are you in The Winter’s Tale?”

“Haven’t even started yet. Please don’t fail me.”

Castiel laughs and takes the pie out of the microwave, plopping a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on top and getting two forks. “I’m not going to fail you, Dean. You have time. I want to see what you think.”

They stand at the counter together and eat the slice in silence. Castiel likes more ice-cream with his, so Dean scoots the dripping mess closer towards him, opting instead for the thick end crust. Forks scrape against porcelain. Dean’s heart starts beats harder and faster. He’s sure that if he could bottle up this chemistry between them, he’d probably make a fucking killing.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“What would you like for Christmas?”

Dean looks up from his bite, surprised. “I don’t want anything for Christmas.”

Castiel chuckles and nudges him with his foot. “Of course you do. Everyone wants something for Christmas. I was thinking of getting Sam an iPod. Or maybe an eBook reader.”

Frowning, Dean scoops up the last bit of crust. “I don’t want you to get him that. You don’t need to get us anything, you’ve done—you do enough for us. Okay? So please don’t. It wouldn’t feel right.”

“What wouldn’t feel right? And why?”

“Seriously? You have to ask me that?” He sets his fork down and presses his lips together. “Cas, you’ve given us a home. And peace of mind. You’re. I just. There’s so much and it wouldn’t feel right making you do even more.”

“You’re not making me do anything,” he says after a beat. “I would like to buy you gifts for the holiday, that’s all.”

“You give us enough,” he insists.

“Were you planning on getting me something?”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Looks down at the floor. “That’s different.”

Castiel laughs, his eyes a little bright when Dean glances up. “How the hell is that different?”

“It just is,” Dean says. Then he stills because Castiel’s moving towards him, getting closer than ever, and his eyes are that crazy saturated blue that should definitely be illegal at least in the continental U.S.

“You’re a remarkably selfless person,” Castiel murmurs, laying a palm to Dean’s cheek, “and I would like to buy you a Christmas gift—just one—to show my appreciation for you. You know, since that’s what you do during such a holiday.”

Dean’s mouth is dry and he swallows with a click. Castiel has dark eyelashes, but they aren’t black. “Give me an A and we’ll call it even.”

Castiel grins at that and pulls away, and Dean can’t figure out if he’s relieved or disappointed. “I’m going to get you a gift. Just one. And Sam as well.”

“You don’t—”

“I know I don’t need to. But I want to, so I will. I’d like to know what you want, though, or else I’m going to get you socks or something.”

“I could use socks,” Dean hedges, and he gets that full-throated laugh that’s so rare and makes his toes curl with sheer pleasure.

He goes to bed a few minutes later with that laugh in his ears, and if he touches himself that night, moans low and vibrant into his pillow, well, it’s not his fault.

*

Bobby calls Dean as Dean’s finishing his shift at the bar. “Your dad wants to see you boys,” Bobby says, without preamble.

Dean counts his tips and puts the cash in his back pocket before responding. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Dean. He hasn’t seen you two in weeks. Just come by for an hour or two so he’ll quit asking.”

Dean wonders when his father became such a burden to everyone, then pushes those thoughts aside. He doesn’t mean to be a bad son, but sometimes it’s hard to be a good one. “Okay. We’ll come over tomorrow, okay? For dinner?”

“Sounds good.” Bobby pauses. “How are you doin’, kid? We don’t talk much at work.”

“I’m…actually, I’m doing pretty good.” He falls quiet for a moment. “My grades are coming up. I’m not tired all the time.” He can tell Bobby these things. Bobby’s more of a father to Dean and Sam than John’s been in a long time. Ten years or so.

“That’s good,” Bobby says, “I’m happy for you.” And he sounds it. “Come by tomorrow at six, all right? Make sure Sam is in a good mood.”

“I’ll butter him up,” Dean promises, and they chat a little more before hanging up. Dean wishes he could bring Castiel along, but his dad would probably just embarrass them all.  
Dean wonders when he started thinking about Castiel constantly rather than occasionally.

 

Sam, predictably, does not want to go see their dad. “I’ve got work to do,” he snaps, sitting at the kitchen table with books and papers around him. “I have a paper due tomorrow.”

“You’re almost done,” Dean points out. “Come on, just an hour. I promise.”

“I don’t understand why we have to go over there.”

Dean bites the inside of his lip, runs a hand over his hair. “Because he’s our dad, Sam, Jesus. And he wants to see us. You can spare one hour—”

“He burned down our house,” Sam hisses. “And you know what? I’m happy here.”

Castiel comes into the kitchen, looks at the two of them, then turns around and leaves. Dean sighs. “Sam. Please.”

“No, Dean. I’m not going.”

Dean doesn’t want to do this, but he can’t find another way around it. He sits next to Sam and takes one of his big hands. “Sammy. Please. For me.”

Sam clenches his jaw. “He’s just going to be drunk again, Dean. And I’m sorry if I’m tired of dealing with it. He always says he’ll get help but he doesn’t. And, oh yeah, he burned our house down.”

“He’s still Dad.” Dean realizes that Sam doesn’t remember how their dad tried several different types of outpatient care almost ten years ago now, and why would he? It’s not like it worked.

“He hasn’t been Dad in a long time and you know it.” Sam watches his brother with fierce hazel eyes. “You’re more of my dad than he’s been in—God, Dean, how long? At least five or six years. At least since you graduated high school.”

“Then do this for me, Sam, please. We just have to go see him so he’ll stop asking Bobby.”

“Why doesn’t he call us himself?”

Dean squeezes his brother’s hand. “I don’t know, but I don’t think he has our numbers.”

Sam makes a terrible sound in his throat and pushes Dean’s hand away. “This is so fucked up, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know. But please, Sam. Just for an hour. I’ll do anything.”

Sam’s expression changes entirely. “Will you?”

“…Within reason. I’m not, like, getting you a Volkswagen full of cheerleaders or anything.”

Sam watches Dean for a moment. “Would you answer a question for me?”

Dean frowns. “Um, sure. But come on, let’s get going before it’s too late.”

They both give a little wave to Castiel, who’s dusting in the living room. Dean meets his eyes and Castiel mouths You okay? Dean just nods and forces a smile, tells him they’ll be back in an hour and a half.

In the car, buckled up and trundling out of the too-nice neighborhood, Sam speaks up. “Can I ask you that question now?”

“What if I said you asking to ask the question was the question? But yes.”

Sam looks out the window. “Are you and Cas into each other or something?”

Dean jerks a little bit, surprised by that. “What?”

“I’m serious, okay? I just. You guys—I don’t know. I was just wondering.”

“I don’t—Sam. No.” He chews his lip because he thinks he might be lying.

“You know it wouldn’t bother me, right?”

“What wouldn’t?”

“If you and Cas, like. Got together or something. I mean, if Cas were a girl, I’d be surprised if you hadn’t made a move yet. I don’t see what the difference is just because he’s a guy.”

“Well, the whole ‘being a guy’ thing is kind of major considering I’m straight.” But he doesn’t say that it isn’t true.

“I don’t know, man. Sometimes I think if you find that one person, it doesn’t matter what gender they are. And to be honest, I think you guys get along a lot better than any girlfriend you’ve ever had.” He glances at Dean, who keeps his eyes steadfast on the road. “So…is there something there? And please don’t lie to me. It’s not like I’ll think any differently of you.”

He chews his lip as he tries to decide how to answer. “I don’t know about him,” he says carefully, “but I’m…there’s. I mean, there’s something there for me.” Even as he says it he feels the heat spread up his neck, burn in his cheeks. “If you fucking tease me about this, I swear to God—”

“I won’t tease you,” Sam interrupts. “Dean, it’s okay. I figured. You guys just. You work.”

“I don’t know. I probably won’t do anything about it. It’s just weird.”

“What’s weird?”

Getting advice from your fifteen-year-old brother, for one. “All of it. It’s weird. He’s a guy. Not to mention my teacher.”

“You’re friends first, everything else second. And…Dean, if you could be happy, really happy, why should it matter what his gender is? Isn’t it the person you like?”  
Dean rolls his eyes a little as they rumble into Bobby’s neighborhood. “God, you’re such a girl sometimes, Sammy.”

“Dammit, Dean, I’m serious. I know you keep joking because you’re trying to hide the way you feel, but I’m serious, okay? Just think about it. It doesn’t make any sense for you not to—”

“Sam, we’re done.” He pulls into Bobby’s driveway and shuts off the engine, glancing at his brother. “I’m probably not going to do anything about it. It’s just…it’s not the right time. Way not the right time. Or the right situation.”

“If you put it off, you’ll never do a damn thing,” Sam says, sounding angry. “Like always.”

Before Dean can respond to that, or whack the shit out of him, Sam scrambles out the car and storms up to the door. Dean makes a mental note to slap Sam later.

 

The dinner doesn’t go bad at all. Their dad is sober and dressed, and though he looks much older than his forty-six years, he’s attentive and remembers what they tell him. In fact, it’s so good that even Sammy enjoys himself, and they stay almost three hours just talking. Bobby looks rather proud of himself, so Dean’s sure he had something to do with John’s sobriety. But Dean’s learned not to expect much from it. John can go a few months without drinking, get a job, even keep it for a while. But it never lasts. Dean takes all the good times he can.

“So Dean,” John says, refilling a glass of sweet tea, “how’re you doin’ in school?”

“I’m…good, actually.” He and Sam didn’t tell their dad where they’re living. It would possibly create problems. “Doin’ okay.”

“That’s good, Dean. I’m proud of you.”

Dean can’t help but to smile a little at that, even though he knows his dad will forget it the next time he drinks. It’s the way it works, he thinks—he feels like a good son until there’s liquor in his father’s veins. “Thanks. I’m proud of Sammy here. All A’s again.”

John ruffles Sam’s messy hair, smiling with affection. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect less from the brains of this family.”

“Dean’s smart,” Sam says, and Dean just rolls his eyes, loving Sam very much right then.

When they stand to leave, John hugs Dean for a long time, and Dean, craving it, just lets him. It’s not one of those heavy drunken hugs, it’s a real one, and Dean can’t let go.

“You take care of your brother,” John murmurs in his ear, and Dean nods, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Yeah, I will. I do.”

“And yourself, Dean. Have a little fun.”

“I’ll try.”

John pulls back, claps Dean on the back of the neck. Emotion brims in his eyes as he struggles for words to speak. “I’m…really sorry, Dean.”

It doesn’t matter what it’s for, Dean realizes. There’s so much to be sorry for. At least John’s saying it. “I know, Dad.”

“I’ll fix all of this,” John says, even quieter than before. “I promise, Dean. I’ll fix all of it for us. I’ll get us a new house.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and his good mood starts to evaporate. He turns to Sam, who’s expression is unreadable. “Gotta get going. School tomorrow and all.”  
John hugs each of them one more time before they head to the car. Once inside, Sam speaks up first.

“That wasn’t too bad.”

“Told you.”

“I really think you should do something about Cas.”

Dean snorts a little, shaking his head. “You know, you really suck at changing the subject.”

“I’m serious, Dean. Stop making so many jokes about it.” He props his feet up on the dashboard and Dean doesn’t even think to tell him to put his fucking feet down. “I know you’re freaked out, but just go with it. Jesus. You never do anything to make yourself happy and I’m tired of it.”

“How do you know this will make me happy? Huh?”

Sam touches his hand, squeezes for a moment before letting go. “Because I know you. You’re my big brother.”

Dean’s getting a little tired of people leaving him speechless.


	3. PART 3

Classes end for the semester quicker than he expects them to, accumulating all at once and ending abruptly. Before he knows it, Dean’s made four A’s and two B’s. Castiel was sure to let him know that he only made an A because Sam helped him with his papers and quizzed him for the tests. Dean doesn’t test well, never has, but he’s grateful anyway. He even buys Sam a used PlayStation2 for putting up with him. Sam’s delighted, so Dean is too.

He keeps his under-thirty hours at both the auto shop and the Roadhouse, spending most of his free time working on the Impala. Although Castiel tries to coax him to interact more with his classmates or at least his coworkers, Dean’s best friend for the moment is that car, and there’s not much anyone can do to divert his attention. It also doesn’t help that Lucifer gets him all the proper tools he needs for restoration, sparing no expense to have the best. With the space heater, and a stereo playing loud rock, Dean is literally the happiest he’s ever been. He smiles all the time now and the ever-present anxiety in his chest has eased, hidden away for the moment. He hasn’t smoked in a month.

Sam’s still in school, will be until the twentieth, so it’s Dean and Castiel alone in the house until Dean has to leave to pick up Sam. Things are weirder than ever between them, almost a breath-catching intense, and Dean is more aware of Castiel than he is of his own body. There are moments where it seems like they’re teetering on the edge of something, when Dean’s fingers itch to reach out and simply take and touch and possess, but it never quite happens. A phone rings or Castiel lowers his eyes, breaking their connection. Uncertain of what this means, exactly, Dean tends to work on the car as much as possible. Cars he understands—spark plugs, pistons, crankshafts, hydrometers, ignition coils, carburetors. He can take a car apart and put it back together, make something dead into something alive and running. He can turn the ignition and, by ear, tell how well the power steering’s working, or if a new alternator is needed.

And then something seems to click. Castiel often catches him in the kitchen (they’re always in the kitchen when it happens and Dean isn’t sure why) and they press together if they aren’t in a hurry, a natural progression, and Cas’ hands rest on Dean’s elbows, his sides, wrists, sometimes his hips, and Dean feels like he’s trying to swallow a rock, or his own heart, and his throat aches from it. Castiel licks his lips and Dean bites his own. He can tell, at these times, that Castiel’s breathing too hard, and the slow skittering touches on Dean’s body make him shiver.

Then they break apart. Dean isn’t even always the one to start it. Often it’s mutual, as if they can tell that it’s the right moment to break away, their voices normal but a bit softened when they speak, as if they’re afraid to shatter the fragile bubble of peace they’ve found themselves in. Dean cannot understand a damn thing about what any of this means, much less how to deal with it.

So he works on the car.

The Impala’s up on jack stands, Dean underneath her on the creeper Castiel bought him so he doesn’t have to use a Goodwill skateboard anymore, when someone grabs his foot and pulls him out.

Dean, covered in grease and oil with a wrench in his hands, stares up at Castiel and forces a smile. “Hello, sunshine,” he remarks, testy. He doesn’t like being interrupted, and Castiel knows this. “What can I do for you today?”

“I have to talk to you about something. It’s very important.”

“Can it wait?” He wants to get the rest of these bolts finished so he can move on to some more exciting stuff. There’s still so much work to be done, but she’s coming along great. Dean hates leaving her even for a moment when he has the time.

“No, it can’t.” Castiel looks more agitated than Dean’s ever seen him, hair a wild dark mess on top of his head, eyes pinched at the corners. “Can you come inside, please?”  
Dean sighs and sits up, taking Castiel’s offered hand, standing and wiping his face with an old dishcloth. “What’s going on, man?”

“Inside,” he says, and Dean follows him, glancing back at the Impala with longing. God, he can’t wait for her to be finished.

Before Dean can even get his beer open, Castiel’s speaking in a rush. “So my brothers want me to visit them for Christmas, but they know I won’t accept because I don’t like traveling to New England at this time of the year, so Gabriel told Lucifer and Michael that they would all come here, and I just spoke with Gabriel and said that I’d have to talk to my roommates, and then he asked me why I had roommates and I told him it’s because I want to, and then he asked me—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down. Okay, so your family wants to visit for Christmas? And? Families and Christmas kind of go together.” He hates when Castiel does this, explaining a problem that Dean doesn’t see as a problem. Then Dean just feels stupid.

“They want to stay here,” Castiel says, impatient. “My brothers want to stay here for a few days over Christmas.”

“So what? It’s your house, man.”

Castiel purses his lips in a way Dean thinks he got from Sam. “You live here too, Dean, both of you do. And not just as my guests. You have your own rooms for a reason. This would force Sam to stay with you, since my brothers refuse to sleep on a couch.”

“So what?” He takes a swig of beer, staring at the cream-colored kitchen floor. “Sam and I have shared a room since he was four.”

Castiel tilts his head but doesn’t remark on that. He twists at a thread on the hem of his sweater, a nervous habit he has sometimes. “You’re my roommates. This would mean imposing on you as well.”

“Dude? I really don’t mind, okay? And I know Sam won’t either. We’ll probably spend part of Christmas day with our dad, anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. How bad can your brothers be?”

Castiel grimaces a little, taking Dean’s beer and swallowing a good portion of it. Dean watches his throat work for two seconds, up and down, before realizing what he’s doing; he looks down at the kitchen tile, which has been recently scrubbed clean. “Sometimes they can be bad,” Castiel rasps, sucking in a long breath of air.

“…Okay, you’ll have to explain that to me.”

Michael’s the eldest Milton and he’s a lawyer in New York City. He’s quiet and arrogant but generally keeps to himself, though he tends to be bossy. Then there’s Gabriel. Castiel had a hard time describing him, other than to say that he’s an advertising executive in Los Angeles and to not take anything he says seriously. “This will be hard for you, Dean,” Castiel says, and there’s a fondness in his tone that he started developing whenever Dean would make an astute connection in class. “You take everything too seriously and he’ll pick on you every chance he gets.”

And then there’s Lucifer. Dean doesn’t know why but he’s nervous about meeting him, probably because he’s named after the Devil and he’s a surgeon in Chicago. Castiel speaks a little highly of him, though, says that while Lucifer can be manipulative when he wants something, he’s easy to get along with.

“If you don’t consent—” Castiel begins, but Dean waves him off and cracks opens another beer. Castiel, bless him, switched from his usual Bud Lite to Shiner for Dean.

“It’s your family. Family should be together for Christmas. Don’t worry about us, we’ll stay in the basement and get out of your hair.”

“No,” he says, even sharper than before, stepping towards Dean. “I don’t want that either. You can hang out with us too.”

“Won’t that be weird?” He’s fairly certain that hanging out with your roommate’s family on a family-oriented holiday has got to be a little odd.

“Probably,” Castiel admits, and he leans against Dean in that way Dean likes, their angles slotting together easily, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. “But—don’t laugh at me—they pick on me when it’s just me. And I kind of hate it.”

Dean smirks at him and gives him a patronizing pat on the head. “That’s because you’re the little brother. It’s the big brothers’ prerogative.”

Castiel bats his hand away and huffs, eyes flashing in annoyance. “This isn’t funny, Dean.”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“So it’s okay with you? Will it be okay with Sam?”

“Sam’s good with people,” Dean says, and doesn’t have to see that neither he nor Castiel are. “He’ll get along just fine with them. You and I can just get drunk.”

“I might be on board with that once they all get here.” He looks a little gloomy so Dean, without thinking, hooks an arm around his waist. It brings them closer together, face to face. Castiel’s blue irises are a thin ring around his heavy pupils.

“Dude, if they’re only going to be here for a few days, you’ll be fine. Chill out. You’re probably making this worse than it actually is.” He has to force his voice to remain normal, Castiel’s breath soft and warm when he exhales, brushing Dean’s lips.

“You don’t know my brothers.” And he sounds normal too, but there’s a quiver in his skin that Dean can feel, highly tuned to Castiel as he is.

“Your parents or sister aren’t coming?”

Castiel shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he rests a hand at Dean’s hip and draws him in. Dean hears the muted click of their belt buckles bumping together and he desperately thinks of anything but Castiel and the heat of his lithe body. “What do you want for Christmas? You still haven’t told me. I refuse to shop on Christmas Eve.”

“I don’t want any gifts, you know that.” His heart feels like it’s bouncing from his stomach to his throat, making him sick.

Castiel touches the back of his heated neck with his free hand, no more than a few inches away now, speaking normal and calm. “Then what do you need? If you’re not going to let me buy you something frivolous, at least tell me what could benefit you.”

Dean’s eyes flick down to Castiel’s lips, just for a moment, before he looks away. They’re almost cheek to cheek now, and Castiel’s body is in a long unbroken line against his. It’s delicious. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“What are you getting Sam?” Those long, sensitive fingers card through his hair in a slow, soothing motion. Dean can’t suppress a shiver.

“Probably more video games,” he murmurs, and his voice sounds rough even to his own ears. He’s going to explode or throw up. Maybe both. Castiel moves the hand on Dean’s hip to Dean’s shoulder, smoothing out a small tear in his flannel shirt. “Um. Also some…some, uh. Books. He’s a quantity over quality kind of guy, so I was gonna go crazy at Half-Price.”

“Perhaps I will get him something to do with books as well.”

“Don’t you dare buy him an eBook reader. I looked it up, those things are expensive. He doesn’t need one of those.”

“It would be beneficial to him once he gets to college. He can simply download his textbooks and will not have to carry around so much weight in his backpack.”

That does sound like an idea, but Dean shakes his head anyway. “He’s not going to college for two more years.”

“Then I will buy it for him for graduation.”

Dean turns his head a little, meets Castiel’s eyes. Something in those words stirs him, even as he tries to push it down. Castiel knows him too well by now, though, and cups his cheek gently.

“I’ll be here as long as you want me here.”

“Cas…”

“I mean it. You can trust me.” His thumb brushes Dean’s bottom lip and Dean sucks in a breath, holds it. “We’re friends, Dean. I want you around.”

Friends don’t have this much sexual tension with one another, he wants to say, but can’t because Cas is pulling him in, and Dean sees a flash of blue eyes before lips are on his. It might’ve been meant to be gentle and brief, almost teasing, but he doesn’t think Castiel expects him to react much—certainly he doesn’t expect Dean to jerk him closer by his hips, put one hand at the back of his head, and lick his mouth until it gasps open. Dean doesn’t expect it either, but now that he’s here he’s going with it, his pulse heavy in his veins, Castiel’s tongue in his mouth, a body trapped in his greedy hands. He wants to touch everything, push up that stupid bulky sweater and find out what Castiel is really made of.

In only moments it’s burning up in the kitchen, and if Dean thought Castiel was the passive type he was completely wrong. Hands press against him fucking everywhere, not tentative at all, searching, exploring, and he arches into Dean so Dean has to tip his head back, let Castiel hold him still and take, take, take, barely breathing except in sudden sharp inhalations, and their chests press together, ribcage to ribcage, and then Castiel slides away, out the kitchen, and Dean’s left feeling cold with his heart rattling in his chest.

*

They don’t bring it up and Castiel doesn’t kiss him again. Dean works on the car in between taking Sam to school and picking him up. It’s slightly awkward but only for a couple of days. Then they’re back to their same routines, though Dean definitely watches him more, noting every movement of his hands and the way he sets his shoulders when he has something important to say.

The kiss was fucking amazing and he wouldn’t mind having it again, despite his brain supplying all the reasons he shouldn’t. He keeps thinking about Sam’s words, how he never does a damn thing. Maybe Sam’s right (the little bastard). Castiel does make him happy, happier than he’s ever been. They clearly get along well. And the chemistry is there in unholy amounts, can spark between them with nothing but a simple look, though Dean knows instinctively that Cas is far too good for him. He can’t help it, though.

It’s flat-out strange. Dean likes taking care of things, always has. It’s why he’s good with his brother and his father, and with cars, with customers. But Castiel doesn’t need to be taken care of. He’s independent and self-sufficient, and for some reason it works for Dean. Castiel doesn’t need to be taken care of, but Dean wants to take care of him. And get cared for in return.

So four days before Christmas, while Sam is passed out on the couch, Dean knocks on the open door to Castiel’s room. “Hey, Cas?”

Castiel looks up from his tall bed, where he’s reading a book. Dean’s never been in his room before, very carefully stayed away from it. He thinks of it as a volcano—too hot to handle. “Come on in.”

Dean does, taking a breath, hands in his pockets, noticing that the walls are a soft cream, the baseboards bright white. Even the bed is in neutral tones of brown, classy and understated. There’s not a thing out of place, the half dozen pillows on the bed perfectly lined up. “I figured out what I’d like for Christmas. If you still want to get me something.”

Castiel puts his book aside and grins, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed but not standing. “And what’s that, Dean Winchester?”

Dean flushes and looks at his feet. “I don’t have anything specific, but if you want, I’d like you to make me something. I’m not, like, a gadget kind of guy. And all the stuff I’d want is for that car and your brother’s paying for that. But if you wanted to make me something, I’d be—I’d like that.”

“A handmade gift, then.” There’s something distinct in his voice but Dean can’t quite place what it is. He thinks it sounds a bit fond, though.

“Yeah. I don’t know. It’s all I could think of.” He smiles with self-deprecation. “I know it’s kind of pathetic.”

“It’s not,” Castiel says, watching him with a slight head tilt. “It’s actually very you. Though I have to say, I would really like to buy you a gift, if I may. I have something in mind.”

“It’s not crazy expensive, is it?” Dean’s biggest complex with Castiel is money, or rather his lack of it and the fact that Castiel can swim in a pool full of hundred dollar bills and not even blink. It always makes him feel slightly off-kilter. He’s never been ashamed of being a working man—hell, he’s a working man who gets to go to college, for Christ’s sake—but there’s a distinct separation between what he does for a living and what Castiel does. Dean washes his hands five or six times a day, paranoid about touching Castiel with grease under his nails.

“Not at all,” Castiel assures him. “And I believe you’d like it. Though it’s not practical at all. It’s downright superfluous. Is that acceptable?”

Dean shrugs a little, smiling crookedly. “As long as it isn’t crazy expensive. Don’t go all out on me, Cas. You do enough the rest of the year.”

Castiel holds out a hand and Dean, after a beat, takes it, stands between Castiel’s knees and tries to look at anything but him. It’s hard, though, because Castiel is so close and Dean, like a moth, is drawn to his light, ready to burn up. “Thank you, Dean.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he mumbles, embarrassed. It’s as if Dean letting him buy a gift is a gift in and of itself. It shouldn’t be. Dean’s not worth that.

“I do. I’m glad you’re letting me get you something. It means a lot to me.”

Dean looks down at him then, pushes that messy fringe of reddish-brown hair away from his eyes, tracing a smooth eyebrow with his thumb. “What do you want? For Christmas?”  
Castiel seems to think for a moment, absently smoothing the wrinkles from Dean’s shirt with his long, slim fingers. The touch makes his stomach muscles twitch and jump. “Honestly? I don’t think I’ve thought about it.”

“Well, think about it.” He covers Castiel’s fingers with his own, stops him. “It tickles,” he explains at the funny look he gets. Castiel actually blushes and takes his hands away.

“My apologies.”

“No, it’s fine. It just tickles.” He picks up his hands again, lacing their fingers together, playing with them, focused enough on the bedspread to notice that it’s very carefully stitched with an asymmetrical bird pattern. He’s damn good at evading things when they’re right in front of his face. “So, what do you want?”  
Castiel swallows with a click and Dean feels a little triumphant. Finally, he’s not the only one who’s affected. He chances a look at Castiel and sees that his eyes are wide, his cheeks flushed, and something in Dean stirs with pride. “Ah. I’m not sure.”

“Come on, there has to be something,” he wheedles, smiling a little and squeezing Castiel’s hands. “Think.”

Castiel looks up at Dean and seems on the verge of saying one thing but changing his mind. “I would like something handmade as well. Let’s be honest with ourselves—if I want something, I buy it. But something handmade from you…that appeals to me.”

“I can do that,” Dean smiles, and he’s tired of resisting quite so much, and Sam’s stupid words still ring in his head, and so fucking what if he’s not good enough for Castiel? This isn’t marriage. This isn’t settling down and committing to one another forever. It’s enjoying what they have and exploring what could be, so he presses his palms to Castiel’s, bends, and kisses him. It’s slower than before, Dean taking his time to learn the shape of Castiel’s mouth, the plush bow of his top lip, but that inescapable heat builds up quick and ignites something in Dean’s chest, and he gives himself a few more moments of this, of Castiel, and it feels like he’s getting punched in the solar plexus with each urgent press of mouths, and he finally pulls away before he goes way too far, maybe pushes Castiel onto the bed and watches those blue eyes spark, that body shudder.

“Dean—” There’s a petulant breathlessness to his tone that Dean has to ignore for the time being.

“I’m gonna go work on the car,” he says, voice rough like he’s been hollering, and touches Castiel’s sweet swollen mouth so it’s not a rebuff. “I’m almost halfway done. She’s looking great so far.”

Castiel closes his eyes, exhales against Dean’s thumb. His body thrums finely, probably from not getting what it wants, and it takes him several moments and two long swallows before he can even speak properly (Dean wants to pat himself on the back for a job well done). “Come find me later, then. We have to decide what to do for dinner. What do you think Sam will like?”

“Probably anything, he’s such a fucking trash compactor. I vote for pizza. Your pizza. I don’t know what you do to the crust, but goddamn, it’s so good.”

“Garlic butter,” Castiel murmurs, and he reaches up, curls fingers in the collar of Dean’s shirt, and pulls him in, mouth slack and wanting. “One more. I need it.”

Dean kisses him, even as he unravels at the words, pulsing in every pore and nerve ending of his body. One kiss turns into three, and three turns into Castiel working to pull Dean onto the bed, heels pressing into the backs of Dean’s thighs. “I have to work on the car,” he breathes, tangling fingers in Castiel’s hair. “Cas, please. I can’t start this yet.”

“Why not?” he demands, and there’s such a fierceness in the way he says it that Dean laughs.

“I actually have stuff to do and it’s daytime and my little brother’s here. Do I need to go on?”

“You can do that stuff later and we can close the curtains and Sam’s a big boy.” He huffs a little, chewing on his lip. Dean bends closer and licks it, grinning when Castiel shoves him away. “No. You don’t get that right now.”

“Don’t be like that,” Dean goads, and even though this is weird for him—legitimately interested in another man, kissing another man, wanting to fuck another man—it’s oddly comforting and…right. It’s Castiel, after all. Not some random guy. Dean knows him better than he knows just about anyone in his life that isn’t family. “Come on. Don’t you want to wait for the right time and all?”

“I’m not a girl,” Castiel snorts, but he slides back onto the bed anyway, still all pink in a pretty way. “Any time is the right time.”

“I’ll take a raincheck,” Dean offers, and Castiel looks up at him with interest, as if Dean’s a very tasty bit of prey. It makes Dean nervous.

“All right,” he says, after a beat. “That sounds good. You go do your little project. I’ll speak with you later.”

“Right,” Dean says, and he bolts before he can get himself into more trouble. His jeans are way too tight and there’s something growing in his chest, constricting his lungs and his heart. He thinks about Castiel’s eager, round mouth, the way his hands moved fucking everywhere as if they were possessed, and knows there’s going to be another marathon session with his left hand that night.

*

Over the next few days, Castiel is a cleaning fiend even though he hates doing most of it, sweeping and mopping and waxing the floors, vacuuming the carpet, dusting the walls and the blinds, wiping down the cabinets and scrubbing the fireplace. He gets all the laundry done and folded and put away, which has usually been Sam’s job, and tells Dean and Sam not to worry about it. “Just go Christmas shopping,” he says, streaks of grease from the oven across his face, hair tangled and sticking up all over his head. “I’ve got this covered.”

So Dean takes Sam to the mall. They split up for about an hour so they can buy presents for one another, Dean going to the gaming store and picking out all the games he think Sam would like, then meet up again in the food court to discuss the other three people they’re buying for.

“If we got Dad a few cases of water, do you think he’d get the hint?”

Dean glares at his brother, scooping up more chow mein on his fork. “Don’t be a smartass. If you’re not going to make a real suggestion, shut up.”

“What about a neon sign that says No Liquor?”

“Dammit, Sam. Fine, forget about Dad for a minute. What about Castiel, what are you getting him?”

“What are you getting him?”

Dean slurps up his Coke, swishing the ice around. “He wants me to make him something.”

“He told you that?”

“Yeah. I told him what I wanted and he told me what he wanted.”

Sam leans forward, grinning like the bastard he is. “Oh? What did you say you wanted? You looked at him and told him you want him wrapped up like a—ow! Dean!”

Dean glares at him as Sam rubs his nose, having gotten smacked in the face with a fortune cookie. “That’s what you get for being a dick.”

“I’m just trying to help you with your pathetic love life, my God.”

“Yeah, well, quit helping. It creeps me out.”

“Have you done anything about it?” Sam snorts, throwing the cookie back at Dean, who dodges it easily. “Probably not.”

“I’ve—” He pauses, chews the inside of his lip. He really shouldn’t be telling Sam a damn thing. “Sort of. But that’s all I’m telling you, so quit trying to pry. You sound like a creeper.”

Sam looks pleased for the rest of the day, though, which puts Dean into a good mood. They finish their shopping, getting Bobby a new leather planner for the upcoming year, since he likes using those rather than a computer for his schedule. Dean finds a nice hand-carved wooden chess set, remembering how he and his dad used to play all the time back when Dean was in high school. Sam doesn’t even say anything to contradict it, silently adding a chess clock with it.

As they’re about to leave, navigating through crowds of harried mother and screaming children, Sam stops suddenly by the pet store, eyes wide as if he’s been hit with a wonderful idea that will change the world. “I know what to get Cas.”

“I don’t think he wants a bunny,” Dean remarks, looking at the lethargic rabbits.

“No, you moron. I’m not going to get him a pet. But I know what to get him.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not telling you. You’ll ruin it.”

“Well, don’t do anything dumb, all right?” He can see Sam now giving Castiel his blessing for marriage or something retarded like that. Though Dean loves his brother with everything he has, he hates when Sam weasels his way into things that aren’t his fucking business.

Sam glares at him a little and starts walking towards the mall entrance. “You’re such a dick, Dean. You’re lucky I put up with you.”

Dean grins even more and follows Sam, looping an arm around his neck. He hopes things stay this good for a little while longer, because he rather likes his life at the moment.

*

“My, my, Castiel, your houseboy is quite the looker. Do you make him clean in an apron too?”

Dean doesn’t know how to respond to that, staring at the outrageous smirk of one of Castiel’s brothers. Several options run through his head: Hit him, punch him, kick him. Before Dean can do any of these things, Castiel rolls his eyes and extends his hands, calm as can be. “Give me your bags and shut up, please.”

“No, no, I’m curious.” He leers at Dean again, who can feel an itch in his arm that means his muscles are tightening up in preparation to swing and swing hard. “My, such a nice mouth as well.”

“Hey—” Dean protests, glaring down at the annoying little man, but he can’t do anything about it because Castiel gives him a very clear ‘cease and desist’ type of look.

“Dean, this is my brother, Gabriel. Gabe, this is my roommate, Dean. His brother Sam should be here soon from the store.”

“There’s two of them? You’re such a dirty whore.”

“He is not—” Dean starts again, but Castiel kicks him on his way towards Sam’s bedroom.

“Gabe, you can stay in here again.”

Gabriel gives Dean a rather saucy wink and follows his brother. Dean already wants him out of the fucking house, but it isn’t his house and it’s not his family, so he’s got no say in the matter. Instead he goes into the kitchen and makes himself a sandwich, trying to heed Castiel’s words of not taking Gabriel seriously, but his hands shake when he slathers mayonnaise on the bread.

He’s just taking his first bites of his rather epic ham and turkey sandwich when Castiel comes in the kitchen and grabs his arm. “I told you not to listen to him. He does it on purpose, Dean. Now he’ll do it more because he knows you’re reacting.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help it.” Dean swallows and gives Castiel a glare right back. “I didn’t know he’d be like that.”

“Well, he is. So just chill out, okay?”

Dean looks at him for a long moment. He’s never seen Castiel this agitated before. “Dude, deep breaths. We’ll get through this.”

“I know. I just. They make me feel—it’s not important. I’m going to go check on him, make sure he isn’t do anything ghastly.” He leans in, stretches up, and gives Dean a brief, hard kiss. “Stop letting him get to you.” He rushes out the kitchen and Dean watches him go, aching instantly for more.

 

Dean shouldn’t be surprised by it, but Sam gets along well with all of Castiel’s brothers, including Gabriel. While Dean and Castiel squeeze onto the huge armchair together, half-drunk on eggnog, Sam’s engrossed in a conversation with Lucifer and Michael about med school versus law school. Michael seems to be winning, but he is a lawyer, after all.

They sort of ignore Dean, which is fine by him, really, but it feels odd to be sitting right next to Castiel and not be addressed in the slightest. Gabriel doesn’t ignore Dean, but he stops trying to needle him when Dean doesn’t respond. Instead he’s on the floor, playing with his French bulldog, Pierre, and a German Shepherd puppy he hasn’t named yet. Dean’s allergic to dogs but he doesn’t tell Castiel this, turning his head every time he has to sneeze and counting to ten.

Michael’s the first to leave for bed, bidding good night to Sam and Castiel before making his way upstairs. Dean makes a face at him behind his back and gets a snort out of Gabriel for it.

“I should go to bed as well,” Lucifer says quietly, looking at Castiel. “What time should I get up?”

“I was going to cook breakfast around ten,” Castiel says, and there’s a slight slur to his tone, as if he’s trying to speak through molasses. His skin is flushed and Dean has to refrain from licking him. Fuck, but he’s hot.

“That late?”

“Dean and I run in the mornings and Sam likes to sleep in now that school’s out.” He raises one eyebrow at his brother, and for the first time in months, Dean sees a professor in him. “Would you like to cook breakfast?”

Lucifer smiles a little. “I am a guest.”

“You are family.”

“I can make breakfast,” Sam speaks up, clearly trying to dispel the tension. “It’s not a problem, I can get up early. There’s usually good stuff on TV in the mornings, anyway.”

Dean loves his little brother very much right then. Lucifer gives Sam what looks to be a quite genuine smile. “I will help you.”

Dean doesn’t really like that, the attention the creepy guy seems to be giving his brother, but it’s probably harmless. Castiel doesn’t react to it, just tells them both good night as Lucifer heads upstairs and Sam goes downstairs to Dean’s basement.  
Gabriel looks at the two of them on the chair. “Please don’t fuck too loudly tonight. I need my beauty sleep.”

“Hope you never wake up,” Dean says cheerfully, though he feels his body fill with heat at the words. Gabriel gives him a deferential nod.

“I like him. He talks back.”

Castiel snorts a little and stretches out. “Of course you do. Go to bed. Take a Xanax if you have to. I don’t want to have any issues like last time, okay?”

“Fine, fine. It’s not like they stayed that long.”

“Overnight was too long, Gabe.”

Gabriel waves him off and, whistling to his dogs, heads into his room. It’s quiet in the living room without any other people with them, and the crackle of the fire in the (very clean) fireplace is soothing. Dean feels warm and happy and good, and when Castiel leans into him, angles his head that little bit, Dean lets him, craving his touch.

“Your brothers could come down,” he murmurs, shifting a little, trying to fit on the chair.

Castiel puts an arm around his back, hooks his knee over Dean’s. “They won’t. I promise. What if Sam comes up?”

“He won’t.” Dean doesn’t say it’s because Sam will try to give them privacy. “He looked pretty tired, and if he’s gotta get up early to cook he’ll pass out.”

Castiel traces Dean’s bone structure, fingertips gliding along his cheeks and his forehead. “Should we talk about this?”

Dean flushes and looks down, curling his fingers in the soft cotton of Castiel’s sweatshirt. “I don’t really want to. If we talk about it, then I have to think about it, and when I think I about it I kind of get a little weirded out by the whole thing.”

“You mean a lot weirded out.”

“Yeah, that. So. Talking isn’t good.”

Castiel presses him a little closer, cupping his cheek. “Then we won’t talk.”

“That works,” Dean says, hoarse, and he’s lightheaded from the eggnog and Castiel, whose touch is a slow burn on his body. Dean kisses him this time, maps out the contours of his plush mouth, licks the dry lips until they’re damp and soft. Castiel slides them around until he’s on his back against the arm of the chair and his limber body is wrapped around Dean, legs pulling him closer, hands on his back and in his hair.

Dean feels it again, the need to have more, take more, but he can’t, not on the chair in the living room with all kinds of family members under one roof. So he pulls away, bites his lip, and runs a hand through his hair. “I should probably go to bed.”

Castiel touches him, tugs him closer, kisses him with an open mouth, a noise falling from his throat. “Dean, please.”

“I don’t trust myself,” he mumbles, breathless, and slides a hand into Castiel’s hair, holding him there and kissing him as if he can’t control it—which, really, honestly, he can’t.

“I trust you.”

“At least one of us does.” Dean’s greedy now, like he knew he’d be, and maneuvers Castiel onto his lap, wishing he wasn’t wearing the stupid sweatshirt because his body is a little on the awesome side. “Cas, look—”

“We said no talking and I intend to honor that.” Castiel kisses him with that same urgency and Dean groans, shifts, rests his hands on Castiel’s thighs and tries not to lose his mind. He’s never been kissed like this—hell, he’s never had sex like this, where everything is hot and bubbling and each kiss he receives feels like it’ll be his last. Like he’s starving for it, will die if he doesn’t get it. It should scare him, and it probably will, after he’s alone and sober and able to think, but right now, he’s just fucking goddamn hungry as hell.

Castiel makes these noises in his throat that would probably be best if they weren’t legal, little grunts and moans and stuttered gasps, and Dean echoes them—it’s all he can do, really—and pushes his hands under the sweatshirt and presses skin to warm skin and Castiel arches his spine until it pops and Dean bites his throat and Castiel rocks his hips against Dean—

—and Dean can’t take it anymore, pushes him away, panting, eyes squeezed shut. “We’ve got to stop or else I won’t.”

Castiel makes a frustrated noise, pressing his forehead to Dean’s shoulder. “We can go to my room.”

“I’d feel really, really weird with a surplus of brothers here.” He curls fingers through that soft hair again, murmuring. “Though I want nothing more than to…just. You know.” He feels twelve again, can’t even say the word ‘fuck.’ Castiel noses at his earlobe, kisses there, and some of their passion cools, simmering.

“Then why don’t you?”

“There’s the whole family thing, and the fact that we’re kind of drunk. Did you forget the part where we drank all that eggnog?”

“It was good eggnog, though.”

“Oh, it was. I liked it. Obviously.” He pulls back a little and meets blue eyes. “Just for the record, um. I like you.” He’d never say this while totally sober. It sounds juvenile and girly, two things Dean is not.

“I would hope that you did,” Castiel smiles, kissing the tip of his nose, his cheekbones, chin. “I would also hope that my intentions towards you are clear as well.”

Dean swallows and closes his eyes, letting Castiel touch him gently all over, enjoying the caresses. “I don’t want to label this.”

“Neither do I.”

“Okay, good. I don’t, like. Want to be. Your. You know.”

“Boyfriend, Dean. The word you’re desperately trying not to say is ‘boyfriend.’”

“Yeah, that.” He makes a face. “I hate that word for two guys. It sounds so lame and dumb.” And not important enough.

“We can just continue as we are, then. It works, right?”

“Yeah, exactly.” He’s relieved that Castiel sees it the way he does. He doesn’t think he could be much more than this even if he wanted to be. They’re on different levels in just about any way he can think of, Castiel always one step above Dean, always that little bit better. Even though they work well together, and fit together, and obviously have a ridiculous amount of passion, Dean knows it can only go so far. Castiel will eventually deserve better. He’ll also eventually see it.

“I do have one request,” Castiel murmurs, pressing a little closer until Dean fits hands around his slim hips.

“What’s that?”

Castiel touches his bottom lip, and his eyes are very big and very dark. “Kiss me more? Just do it whenever you want to. Please.”

Dean exhales a little, flicking his tongue out to touch Castiel’s fingertip. “I can do that, yeah.”  
When he goes to bed half an hour later, feeling less drunk and more tired, Sam rolls over to face him once Dean’s settled in.

“Did you and Cas have a good time?” he slurs, and Dean punches his shoulder lightly before pulling him in. Sam used to be a cuddler when he was younger, and even now, every so often, it’s like he craves it or thinks Dean will disappear and needs it one last time. Dean doesn’t mind. It’s like when Sam was four and he was thirteen, and Sam would have nightmares all the time about the car wreck. Before their father was an alcoholic. Before their mother died. Dean would hold Sam and rub his back and it was the only way Sam could fall asleep. Not even John could put Sam to sleep like Dean could.

“We did, yeah.”

“I left you alone for a reason. I hope it worked out.”

Dean rubs his back in wide circles, noting that his little brother is almost as big as he is now, and Sam makes the same noise he’s been making for ten years. It’s soothing and comforting. “We’ve made some decisions, but shut up for now, okay? It’s time to sleep.”

“I really like Cas.”

“I know you do, sleepy, that’s damn clear. Come on, go to sleep.”

Sam tucks his head beneath Dean’s chin, long hair tickling his nose. “I think he loves you sometimes.”

Dean says nothing to that, but the thought makes his heart shiver in a very strange way.


	4. PART 4

They celebrate the Milton family Christmas on Christmas Eve. It’s probably the most extravagant gift-exchange Dean’s ever seen in his life. Castiel gets a six-person hot tub from Lucifer, a red Porsche Cayman S from Michael (Dean nearly wets himself when he sees it gleaming in the driveway), and a two-week vacation to some Italian villa from Gabriel.

Oh, and the German Shepherd puppy is Castiel’s as well. Sam’s delighted. Dean sneezes.

Castiel’s gifts to his brothers aren’t quite as big, but they say thank you anyway, though Dean thinks, with a prickle of annoyance, that they don’t really care either way. For some reason that bothers him for the rest of the day, though he can’t quite say why, but he thinks it has something to do with how awesome Castiel is, and how Dean views his own brother, and how he thinks everyone should just be awesome to their brothers. It doesn’t make sense to him that the Milton family dynamic is all fucked up.

Sam and Dean squeeze onto the armchair together, late afternoon sun in stripes on the floor, Sam’s legs long and gangly and out of control. The Miltons congregate in the kitchen with wine, talking about their parents, who seem to be on some sort of a safari. Sam pulls the sleepy puppy onto his lap and Dean tries not to make a face.

“Should we give Cas our presents?” Sam asks, ruffling the puppy’s fur.

“Nah, not until he says so.” Dean would honestly rather not give Castiel his gift in front of Gabriel, if he can help it. He’s not embarrassed about it, exactly, but it’s a little dorky and he’s not particularly in the mood to deal with the inevitable teasing.

“I want to give him his gift.”

“What the hell did you get him, anyway?”

Sam sticks his tongue out. “I’m not telling you.”

Dean snorts and reaches out, despite his allergies, to pet the puppy. The damn dog really is cute, he has to admit that. And he’s better than Pierre, who has already chewed up three or four pairs of Castiel’s shoes. “Fine. But if you embarrass me in any way, I’m disowning you.”

“You will not. You love me, moron.”

“Eh. Sometimes.”

Dean punches him in the shoulder as Lucifer approaches them, eyes on Sam. “Would you like some pie?”

Dean wants to flip him off but feels it would be inappropriate, and, not to mention, totally ignored. He literally can’t wait until the brothers leave.

Sam slides off the chair, smiling politely and giving Dean a knowing look. “Yeah, I do. I’ll come get it.”  
Dean glares at both of them when they go into the kitchen together, feeling a little left out, but the puppy licks at his face and makes him smile, even though he itches and gets little bumps on his skin. All things considered, it’s not that bad of a Christmas Eve. There’s no yelling or fighting, no Dad getting drunk on eggnog and whiskey. The fireplace is warm and Dean feels at home, and dammit, but it’s a nice fucking feeling. It’s stable. It may not be entirely normal, but Dean’s not sure what normal is, anyway.

When Castiel joins him about ten minutes later, with a big slice of apple pie for him, Dean gives him a smile that says more than he can, and Castiel returns it, reaching out to thread fingers through his hair, palm on the back of his neck, and Dean simply looks at him until Castiel actually blushes.

The rest of the evening goes smoothly, with a nice dinner and hot chocolate outside on the deck, roasting marshmallows over the barbecue pit, Sam eating all the burnt ones that Dean burns “on accident.” It’s at this point that even Gabriel seems to be feeling the calm Christmas cheer, because his lewd jokes are kept to a minimum and he keeps smiling at Castiel like he’s never seen him before, and Dean isn’t sure why until he notices, belatedly, that he’s been holding Castiel’s hand most of the night, fingers interlocked. It surprises him that it’s become such an unconscious thing between them, but he doesn’t worry about it at the moment. Things are good. Things are really good.

The Milton brothers, minus Castiel, turn in before midnight, leaving the others in the living room, Sam on the floor with the puppy and Castiel tucked into the chair again with Dean (who hasn’t moved in an hour).

“What are you going to name him?” Sam asks, shushing the puppy when he gets too bark-happy.

“I don’t know. I never really anticipated owning a dog, but he seems friendly enough. What do you think, Sam?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it.” There’s a tone in his voice that Dean can’t quite figure out, but he gets a feeling that this is Castiel’s way to give the puppy to Sam. It makes him smile, and he squeezes Castiel’s fingers, hands resting together in the small space between their bodies.

“What do you think, Dean?” Sam asks, pulling away as tiny teeth try to bite his hair.

Dean looks at the puppy rolling all over Sam. “I vote for Macduff. Dude was badass. Or maybe Orlando?”

Castiel gives him a rare wide grin, all crinkled nose and teeth. “I appreciate your effort in naming the dog after a Shakespearean character, but there’s no way we’re naming him Orlando. I didn’t like Orlando, I thought he was a fool. I’d rather name him Ganymede.”

“I don’t like that,” Dean says, and he shifts to rest his legs over Castiel’s, feet dangling off the arm of the couch. “I still like Macduff.”

“Cas, don’t you also teach British lit and stuff?” Sam asks, holding the puppy like a baby as the exertion of the last few hours causes him to pass out.

“I teach many things,” he says quietly, and Dean’s mind wanders instantly into pornland. Yeah, Castiel could teach many things, starting with that mouth of his.

“We’ll figure out a cool name,” Sam smiles, standing slowly. “Dean, can the dog sleep with us? Will that bother you?”

“Probably, but I’ll get used to it.”

Castiel looks at him in surprise. “You’re allergic to dogs?”

“Yeah, but it’s not a big deal. I just sneeze sometimes.” He squeezes Castiel’s hand, rolling his eyes at the look of concern he gets. “Really, chill out. I like that dog.”

“We’ll find a name for him soon,” Sam says, smiling at the two on the chair. “Night, guys. Merry Christmas.”

“Not Christmas yet,” Dean tells him, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Merry Christmas Eve, jackass.”

“That’s more like it.” He watches Sam go to the basement, listens for the click of the door shutting, and turns to Castiel with narrowed eyes. “Okay, what did you get him for Christmas?”

“What did you get him?” he counters, leaning closer and pressing his mouth to Dean’s neck, warm hands slipping beneath his thin sweater. Dean’s instantly distracted, ten fingertips burning on his ribs; it takes effort, but he pushes Castiel away so he can have a conversation that doesn’t involve half-desperate moans in the back of his throat.

“Four video games and ten books. What did you get him?”

Castiel smiles, lips barely upturned at the edges, and puts his hands right back to where they were. “You will not be pleased with me, I don’t think, but I really don’t care.”

Dean frowns at him, stopping him from sneaking further beneath his shirt. “Cas, what did you get him?”

“I made him a house key and a mailbox key and a coupon for a room redecoration,” he says promptly, pushing Dean to where he wants him before sliding on his lap. “I want him to have his own room, one he likes. I’d like him to be here for a while. Also, I’ve been meaning to mention to you that you can do whatever you like with the basement. I noticed that you keep it the way I had it. You’re free to make it more you.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so distracted by the admission that he doesn’t notice Castiel taking off his own shirt. This gift for Sam is too much. Dean doesn’t pay rent, and he usually has to fight to buy the groceries, going early in the morning before Castiel wakes up to restock whatever they need. Castiel doesn’t let him do the yard, and the house is already maintained so it’s not like he can fix anything. He and Sam do most of the household chores, but that’s it.

His second thought isn’t much of a thought, but a feeling. He thinks he might love Castiel very much at this exact moment. “Cas, we gotta talk.”

“I knew you would say that. I’m not taking back his gift.” He frowns petulantly, sitting up straighter on Dean’s lap and looking rather serious and regal despite the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt and his hair is all wild. “You’re not just guests here, Dean. You haven’t been for a while. And Sam needs some sort of stability, and he’s got there here. He’s happy here—told me so himself.”

“I got that, and I appreciate it. But if we’re roommates and not guests, we’re paying rent.”

“Dean—”

He presses his mouth to Castiel’s, quieting him. “I’m serious, okay? You know it’s a big hang-up for me. Let us do some rent and groceries and I’ll feel better. I just.” He doesn’t know how to explain it, how he feels like a freeloader in Castiel’s home, as if he’s a pretty pet. Gabriel’s houseboy comment still bothers him. “You don’t understand, but I’ve got to pull my weight, man. There’s a big…I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

Castiel tilts his head and watches Dean with those keen eyes of his, speaking slow as if he’s testing what he’s saying. “You don’t feel we’re on equal footing.”

Relief. Castiel gets it. “Yes, exactly. I know I can’t pay half the rent, but I need to do something.”

“And my saying that your company is enough—”

“Come on,” Dean argues. “That just sounds like I’m kept or something.”

“I don’t mean that at all.”

“I know you don’t. But I’m serious. Let me pay rent and I’ll…just. Please.”

“If I let you,” he says, considering each word, “then will you treat this as your home?”

“I can try.” He still doesn’t feel like he deserves any of it. He misses his dad a little, but not as much as he should. Castiel is right—there’s permanence here. They have a routine, one that works for all three of them, even if it’s a little domestic and boring. Dean doesn’t have to do weekly searches for hidden liquor bottles, or come home early from work because his dad’s yelling at the neighbors for something stupid. He doesn’t have to be exhausted all the time. Dean, for all of his commitment fears, for all of his waiting for the bottom to fall out, likes this quiet, simple homelife.

“That’s not good enough for me.” He kisses Dean then, a delicate brush of lips. “I want you to live here with me. Both of you. You tiptoe around here, never change anything. I want you to. So if I let you pay rent, you’re going to treat this like your home.”

Dean bites his lip. Changing things, picking furniture or even paint colors, is a little final. “The best I can do is try.” Anxiety catches in his chest and he takes a breath. “Cas, I don’t—”

“I know, Dean. Commitment is tough for you. You don’t believe in promises because they’ve been broken so often. And you always think of Sam first. But I’m not asking for much. You can change your mind at any time, or move out, or anything. Whatever’s best for you and Sam. I won’t make you sign contracts or anything, all right?” He pauses, softens his voice. “Aren’t you happy here?”

“Christ, of course I am—”

“I just want you even happier,” he adds, cupping Dean’s face in his warm palm. “Comfortable. I want you to do well in school because it’s important. And your mental health is important too. You can trust me, Dean. I’ve never lied to you.”

Dean picks at threads on his shirt, heart pumping uncomfortably in his chest as Castiel presses closer, arms a solid warm weight around him. “I know you haven’t.”

“You don’t have to be quite so on guard with me, you know.”

Castiel doesn’t know much about Dean’s life with his dad, but he clearly knows enough. Dean doesn’t look up at him. “Yes, I do. Because eventually something’s going to happen and it’s going to be harder to leave.”  
He tilts Dean’s chin up, eyes a soft dark blue. “What could happen?”

“Anything. Shit happens, Cas. It always happens.”

“Is there anything I can do to make you believe me?”

Dean smiles at him a little, but there’s no humor in it. “Not really.”  
Castiel strokes his hair lightly, kissing his cheekbone, temple, the curve of his jaw. “I’ll keep working on it.”  
Dean closes his eyes and leans forward, pressing close enough to hear Castiel’s heartbeat. It’s a confident sound, he thinks, rhythmic and soothing, skin so warm and soft. “How much rent do you want me to pay?”

“How much can you pay?”

“Cas.”

“I’m serious. Just tell me, Dean.”

He thinks about his expenses—gas, groceries, lunch money for Sam, the occasional dinner out, what he puts into his savings for his dad and college—and calculates in his head. “Probably four-hundred a month.”

“Oh, okay. I was thinking three-hundred.”

“I’m paying you four.”

“That’s fine. Covers your portion of the utilities.”

Dean pulls back and looks at him, eyebrow raised, not trusting the wide innocent eyes Castiel gives him. “Are you teasing me?”

“Only a little.” His smile softens then, sweet enough to make Dean ache a little bit. “You know I think it’s silly for you to pay, anyway.”

“I know. But I have to.” He does feel better, though, and eases closer to Castiel again. The fireplace throws soft golden light over everything, turning the cream-colored couches and carpet to butter yellow. “I’ll pay you on the first.”

“All right. How are you redecorating the basement?”

Dean rolls his eyes and glides hands over Castiel’s bare chest, thumbs brushing against his dusky pink nipples. “I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it.”

“Start thinking about it.” He leans into the touch, rocking against Dean, whose heart catches a bit when he feels an erection pressing into his thigh. “Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Come upstairs with me?”

Dean nods, swallowing hard, throat dry. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

He’s not sure what the difference is now, what with the multiple brothers still in the house, but he follows Castiel up to his room, glad that it’s so dark so he doesn’t have to think about it quite as much. He focuses not on the fact that Castiel is a man but that he’s Castiel, someone who makes Dean feel all carbonated and light and warm, and once they’re inside the bedroom, and once the door is shut, Dean’s not worried anymore.

He doesn’t remember the space of time between being clothed and unclothed. Castiel’s mouth is too good, moving across his own in perfect rhythm, tongue pressing at the right time, and then he’s stretching out on Castiel’s bed, propped up on pillows like a young god on a throne, and he can’t see Castiel’s eyes but he can feel them, hot on his bare skin.

Hands. It’s a fragmented thought in his feverish brain, hands on his knees, pushing them apart, hands on his bare thighs, hands on his hips, stomach, chest. He swallows and there are hands ghosting across his throat, up to his face, fingertips brushing across his parted mouth. He thinks he says Castiel’s name but it’s lost with another noise, incoherent, as Castiel’s mouth falls wet and heated to the slip of skin where hip and thigh meet. Then that mouth is on his cock.

Dean forgets to breathe except in gasps, fingers tangling in Castiel’s dark hair, and he arches his back when Castiel pulls Dean’s legs over his shoulders, mouth tripping down to caress his balls—Christ, it feels like he has two tongues sliding all over his sensitive skin, and then his cock is buried in Castiel’s throat again, over and over, in a rhythm not quick enough to bring him off but to keep him balanced on that sharp edge. Each time he lets out a strangled moan Castiel offers attention elsewhere—the underside of his knee, nails on the backs of his thighs, teeth on his hipbone. It goes on an indeterminate amount of time until Dean can’t take it anymore, squeezing his legs and crying out and shaking, begging.

“I’ve got you,” Castiel says, his voice breaking, the hum of the heater clicking on cutting into the quiet of the room. “Just breathe.”

“Can’t,” Dean moans, and he pulls on Castiel’s hair, just a little. “Fuck, please. Please.”

Mouth, tongue, throat. Wrapped around his cock. Wrapped tight. Wet. Warm. Muscles tighten and release, and he thinks his heart beats hard enough to pump blood through four bodies instead of one, and then he presses his palm to the back of Castiel’s head, and then he comes.

There’s ringing in his ears that distracts him, and he knows he’s making small noises as his cock twitches a little more. Then, somehow, Castiel presses against him again, naked now, his own erection hot on Dean’s thigh. Dean grips him without a thought, finds, with surprise, that Castiel is not circumcised. It stills him for a moment—he’s never seen one before—but then Castiel shudders and rocks against him, pushing all of Dean’s uncertainties away.

“Need you,” Castiel murmurs darkly, sliding his tongue against the salt on Dean’s neck. “Please.”

Dean jerks him tight and quick, fist firm, fingertips grazing over his head each time it’s exposed, liking the loose skin because he doesn’t need lotion to get Castiel off. And he does get him off, pretty fucking fast; in no time Castiel’s coming with a jolt all over Dean’s hand, teeth pressing into Dean’s shoulder with a damp gasp.

He doesn’t quite know what comes over him, but he rolls closer, wrapping around Castiel as tight as he can, kisses sloppy and unfocused. They both come down from their high, and when Dean’s heart beats normal again, and when his body temperature cools, he forces himself to slide out of bed despite Castiel’s protests.

“I can’t sleep in here,” Dean murmurs, catching Castiel when he tumbles toward him, not wanting to let him go. “Another time.”

“Dean.”

“Another time,” he promises, biting Castiel’s lower lip, kissing his pout before pulling away.

“Good night,” Castiel says, dazed and distant, and Dean echoes the same sentiment as he shuts the door, sneaking down into the basement for a quick shower before crawling in bed with Sam, who’s dead asleep and snoring on his back.

*

The Milton brothers that Dean hates leave by ten on Christmas morning, thank God, giving the rest of the day until six that evening to Dean and Sam. Castiel seems relieved too, though he keeps eyeing the puppy as if he doesn’t know what to do with it. Sam’s in love with the dog, Dean can tell, and has a list of names with most of them crossed off.

“I want to name him before we open presents,” he announces, running a big hand over the puppy’s soft fur.

“How about He Who Makes Dean Sneeze?” Dean offers, but only gets a dirty look for his humor.

“What do you think, Cas?”

Castiel takes a sip of his orange juice, looking surprised to have been asked. “Oh…I’m not sure. I’m not a fan of cutesy dog names, though. I prefer people names for dogs.”

Dean grins at him as Castiel passes him to pick up the presents from under the tree (Sam insisted on a tree and Dean couldn’t tell him no). “So is Castiel a human name, or…?”

“Haha, Dean.” Castiel sits between the couch and the tree, designating himself as Santa and getting the presents in order.

“I kind of like Supertramp,” Sam says, rubbing his hand along the puppy’s belly, sending its hind leg into overdrive.

“That’s not a human name, bro.”

“I know, but it’s what Alex McCandless called himself in Into the Wild. I kind of like it.”

“I still vote for MacDuff.” Dean sighs and shakes his head, sliding from the couch to the floor. He tells himself he wants to hand out presents too, but really, he wants to be closer to Castiel. “God, Sam. You’re weirder than I thought you were.”

“I love that book,” Castiel says, setting out one big wrapped box, a smaller wrapped gift, and a tiny gift bag. Dean knows the gift bag is for Sam. He feels okay about it now. “It made me want to hike in Alaska and never leave my couch at the same time.”

“I know, right?” Sam chimes in, with that bright-eyed look he gets with Castiel sometimes, as though they’re twins separated at birth. “I think what I loved was the idea—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean protests, giving them both a look. “It’s fucking Christmas. We’re not discussing school stuff on Christmas. That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t read,” Sam says, and Dean flips him off.

“I think we should open presents first,” Castiel smiles, but Dean can see the tension in his shoulders, the strain in his eyes, and knows he’s nervous. It’s kind of endearing. “Sam, here’s yours.”

Sam takes the gift bag and there’s a softness in his expression that Dean doesn’t see often. “Thanks, Cas.” He digs through the paper, pushing the puppy away with his foot, and pulls out a set of keys—one big and silver, the other small and gold—with a curious smile, then fishes out a really horribly made coupon. His eyes scan the words, mouth moving, before he looks up in total surprise. Whatever he’d been expecting to get for Christmas was clearly not this. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Castiel confirms, reaching for the puppy to keep him occupied and away from the tasty wrapping paper. “Whatever you’d like to do, it’s your room now.”

Sam looks at Dean and says nothing, but that’s okay because Dean can read everything on his face so easily, has always been able to, every expression bare in his eyes: Is he serious? Are you okay with this? Should I accept? Can I accept?

“We’re paying rent,” Dean tells him, and Sam looks tentatively at the coupon again. It’s quiet in the room except for the fireplace and the puppy’s snuffling. Then he presses a palm to his eyes for a moment.

“I really like green,” he murmurs, and Dean swallows hard, looks away, singing a Led Zeppelin song in his head to keep his eyes dry.

“Green,” Castiel repeats. “Sounds good to me. We’ll go shopping after the holiday rush is over. Your turn,” he says to Dean, and there’s more pink in his cheeks than there usually is, his voice a little strained as if he’s trying to keep himself in check. He gives Dean the big box first, and Dean’s surprised to feel how light it is. He blinks a little as he unwraps it, pulls the tape off the box, and picks up a pillow.

It’s a plain twelve-by-twelve inch square, the fabric of the Kansas City Royals, Dean’s favorite baseball team. The stitching is all off and it’s stuffed too full, almost hard. One of the corners is inverted.

Castiel looks more embarrassed than he’s ever been, watching Dean with uncertainty. “You told me to make you something, but I’m not good with my hands. I tried, though.”

Dean looks up, can see Sam smiling out the corner of his eye, but he’s watching his friend. This isn’t just a pillow and he knows that, something in him clicking into place. “I like it,” he says quietly, more touched than he cares to admit as he traces the uneven white stitching, the busted corner. “Thank you.”

Castiel shrugs and rubs the back of his neck, which is lovely and pink. He can’t meet Dean’s eyes. “It’s really horrible.”

“I know. That’s why I like it.”

“I have a better gift for you,” he says, handing Dean the other package.

Dean takes it, but he’s still looking at the pillow, smiling. “No, I really like this one.”

Castiel sighs, smiling and blushing more, the blue of his eyes shiny and bright. “Open that one, though.”

Dean does, placing the pillow to his side. He thinks he’s going to sleep with it for a while. When he gets the wrapping off the second gift, he stares at it, looks up at Castiel with an open mouth. “I thought we said nothing fucking crazy expensive.”

Sam leans forward. “Whoa, is that what I think it is?”

“If you think it’s the ‘Free at Last’ Portfolio, then yes,” Castiel says, looking a little sheepish. “When you said ‘crazy expensive,’ I took that to assume crazy expensive for me, which this was not.”

Dean’s got something caught hard in his throat as he opens the portfolio of Kurt Vonnegut silkscreen prints, hand-drawn by Vonnegut himself. There are fifteen prints altogether, including ten of the open birdcage Dean has considered, more than once, getting tattooed somewhere on his body. They’re all numbered and they are signed, the paper sturdy in his hands. He doesn’t know how Castiel knew that this would be something Dean would like, but he doesn’t care. He must’ve mentioned at some point during one of their conversations and Castiel remembered. Castiel remembered and he got him this, something Dean would never have chosen for himself but has always wanted, having told himself that when he came into money he’d get one of these prints, one of the originals, and frame it. Now he has several. And Castiel gave it to him.

“I can’t accept this,” he says at last, tracing the lining of the bright blue birdcage.

“You can and you will. I figured you’d like it. Don’t you?”

He does. And not because it’s signed, exactly, or because of the thousands of dollars Castiel must’ve spent on it, but the thought behind it. The fact that Castiel remembered something that Dean didn’t even realize he’d told him. “Cas, I—”

“Dean.” He reaches out, touches Dean’s hand. “Just say thank you.”

He pauses, swallows brokenly. “Thank you.”

Sam’s grinning as though this is his present, and Dean can’t speak anymore than that for several moments. Then he leans over, puts his arms around Castiel, and holds him close, tight, using his body to say what he can’t say aloud. There’s an I love you in there somewhere, and in those brief breaths of the hug, he loves Castiel with everything he has, loves him fiercely, somewhere just below Sam, will do anything for him.

Then Castiel lets go and touches his cheek and Dean flushes, looks down. “Thank you.”

Sam leaves the room, probably to get his gifts, and Dean brushes his mouth to Castiel’s, chaste but promising. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” is the soft reply he gets, and Dean takes a breath, settles onto his chair with the pillow in his lap, looking at the prints with reverence. Kurt Vonnegut made these. Dean touches something that Vonnegut touched, something Vonnegut put his heart into. Something Castiel bought for him. It’s a little overwhelming.

Sam comes back, probably after deciding that he’d given his brother and Castiel enough time together, and hands Dean a small black wallet. “That’s yours. Sorry I didn’t wrap it.”

Dean rolls his eyes a little, taking it. It’s heavier than he expected, which surprises him. “Dude, I already have—” He opens it up and sees that it’s not a wallet, exactly, but one of those photo wallets that he thinks he saw Ricky on I Love Lucy whip out one time. Out of the twenty available slots, five are filled.

They’re older pictures, a little creased and torn, but Dean sees, with a dropped jaw, that they’re of his mother. Beautiful blonde Mary, smiling, holding a five-year-old Dean in her lap. Mary with Dean when he was ten, after a Little League game, and a baby Sam resting on her lap. Mary by herself, on the couch, trying to hide from the camera. Mary baking in the kitchen wearing the pink and blue teddy bear apron Dean made for her in seventh grade. Mary and John—sober John—with a small blue bundle in their arms, young and delighted with glassy eyes and huge smiles.

Dean puts a fist to his chest, gazing at his mother’s face—he forgets her so often, especially with the fire that took the only pictures he’d managed to preserve—and somehow finds words. “I thought they were all lost.”

“I kept these in my backpack,” Sam says, putting arms around his brother’s neck, tighter and stronger than Dean expects him to be, always seeing Sam as a little kid wanting to be held and picked up and tagging along behind Dean with little hands reaching for him. “I want you to have them.”

“God, Sammy, no—”

“Dean, please. Just keep them safe for us, okay? Please. I want you to have them.”

“I can’t take those from you.” He knows Sam doesn’t remember Mary at all, too young to recall her; taking these from him feels like a crime, makes guilt twist in his gut.

“We’ll share them,” he murmurs, and his voice isn’t a child’s voice anymore—it’s deep and strong and sure, and even though Dean has always taken care of Sam, Sam has always taken care of Dean. “Just hold onto them for me.”

“I’m giving them back when you go to school,” he chokes out, eyes burning, because yes, Sam will leave one day soon, quicker than Dean expects, and he doesn’t want to be left with nothing. He wants to have a life outside of his brother, and fuck it, he wants to have a life with Castiel despite it all. Dean’s always been a realist, and realistically speaking he is out of Castiel’s league, probably can’t offer him half of what Castiel gives, but fuck it, fuck it, he wants to try.

“That’s fine, just take them.” Sam clutches at him and Dean’s sure he leaves bruises on his back with the strength of his grip. This right here, with Sam’s monumental gift, and Sam’s generosity, and Sam’s kindness, has made everything he’s ever gone through in the last ten years worth it a thousand times over. He’d do it again exactly as he has, with the sleepless nights and the six-year bachelor’s degree and the two jobs (sometimes three) and the constant worrying if his brother will end up like this—a wonderful, brilliant, compassionate individual. Dean has given him everything he could and Sam has given it right back. He’s never been so proud of his brother, or so grateful for him.

“You’re a good kid, you know that?” Dean mumbles, one hand in his brother’s long hair, holding on.

“I know. I was raised right.”

Dean crooks a smile, kisses his brother’s wet cheek. “I love you, Sammy.”

“I love you too, Dean. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Dean pulls away and wipes at his eyes. Castiel’s not in the room with them, and Dean hears some cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He’s grateful for it. He has a hard time letting himself express so much emotion—he’s always had to be cool-headed and even-keeled with an answer for every question. Breaking down like this feels weird and he thinks he’s been doing it more lately. He’s not sure what that means, or if it’s even a good thing, but as long as Sam’s good, Dean can be happy with it.

When they compose themselves and are chatting quietly about the puppy’s name, Dean looking at the pictures often and touching the edges of his pillow, Castiel comes out with a plate of apple pie and a glass of milk for each of them, and they eat together and feed the begging puppy before Sam hands Castiel what looks like a wrapped book.

“That’s from me to you,” he smiles, and he looks excited. “I hope you like it.”

“Of course I will,” he smiles. “It’s from you, isn’t it?” He tears open the wrapping, which is a much better job than Dean’s ever been able to do, and pulls out a plain black composition notebook.

“There’s stuff in it,” Sam says, before Castiel can ask. Castiel, expression curious, opens it. Inside, Dean sees Sam’s neat, small writing but can’t read what it says.

Castiel can. His eyes go big as he turns the pages, dozens of them with Sam’s handwriting. “Sam.”

“What’s it say?” Dean asks, stretching to see, but Castiel hides it and leans to give Sam a hug.

“The size of your heart amazes me,” Castiel tells him, almost a whisper, and Dean feels like an intruder. “Although I shouldn’t be surprised any longer.”

“I hope it helps,” Sam says, beaming with pride. “I think it will.”

Castiel smiles but there’s something wrong in it, a sadness that shouldn’t be there. “Regardless, I appreciate your kindness.”

“What is it?” Dean asks again, paranoid, sure that whatever the notebook’s about, it must say something about him. “Seriously, guys.”

“It’s nothing,” Sam says, and there’s a distinctive ‘leave it alone’ tone in his voice. “Don’t worry about it, Dean.”

“But—”

“Why don’t you give Cas his gift?”

Dean glares at his brother even as he passes his gift bag to Castiel. “You’re a little bit of a jerk.”

“We just had a moment,” he scoffs, punching Dean in the shoulder. “You can’t call me a jerk yet.”

“You know I do it out of love.” He watches Castiel and waits for the reaction. Castiel reaches inside—it’s pretty plain, Dean can’t wrap to save his life and has no idea how to add floofy decorations—and pulls the gift out. It’s about a foot high, four to five inches wide, and made entirely of car parts he found in Bobby’s scrap yard. It took him hours to find the right pieces that weren’t too rusted but were sturdy, and even longer to weld, making it perfect.

“Is…this an angel?” Castiel asks, already smiling.

“Yeah.” He looks down at his feet now, embarrassed for sure. Now that he’s looking at it, he thinks it’s kind of fucking stupid. He made an angel for the guy named after an angel. What the hell’s wrong with him and where did his balls go?

“Is it made out of car parts, Dean?” There’s amusement in his tone but Dean can’t tell if it’s for him or at him.

“Yeah. I can work with cars.”

“I know you can.” He runs his long fingers over the bolts and wires and metal coils, reaching for Dean, who presses into him automatically. “Thank you very much. I love it.”

“I know it’s kind of dorky—”

“No, it isn’t. It’s thoughtful, which is exactly what I wanted.” He squeezes Dean’s hand, sparking that something between them that always seems to ignite when they get close, like static shock. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean would like to kiss him but he feels weird with Sam right there, so he pats Castiel on the back and pushes Sam’s present toward him, a box filled with books and video games and a couple of new shirts. Sam’s thrilled once all the wrapping’s torn off (and the puppy loves the wrapping), turning on the TV to play one of his new games.

It’s been a good Christmas so far, though Dean knows they’ll have to go to Bobby’s later. He’s tried hard to avoid thinking about it too much, hoping his dad’s still doing well and is still sober and remembers everything his kids told him the last time they were together.

But for now he lets himself lounge in the armchair with Castiel, reading the To Whom it May Concern print for a fourth time, pillow on his lap, looking often at the pictures of his mother’s lovely, smiling face. When Castiel puts an arm around him and watches him with a tender expression, Dean watches back. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, and he leans in to brush his mouth against Dean’s rough jaw. “Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, Sam’s excited whooping making the puppy bark in excitement. The fireplace is on again and Dean is very happy.


End file.
